TOURXINE 
Bv  RICHARD 
SUDBURY 


iMc^ 


hi\.\.mi ... .  v'l^d 


.liimiiimmiiimmininiiniiiuillllll:  JH 


Two  Gentlemen  in  Touraine 


tt= 


t'A  Til  i;i)lx'.\  I,    «  >l'     i'Ol    U'S 


TWO    GENTLEMEN 
IN    TOURAINE 


i  .  T 


T .  T 


BY 


RICHARD     SUDBURY 


T .  i 


t  t 


V .  i 


HERBERT   S.  STONE    AND    COMPANY 

CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCIX 


1    •    I 

i .  Y 


^ 


COPYRIGHT     1899,     BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO 


CONTENTS 


Preface 
The  Arrival 
The    Chateau 

Cheverny    .... 
Chambord 
Blois 

Chaumont 

Amboise      .  .         • 

From  Amboise  to  Chenonceau 
Chenonceau 
St.   Aignan 
Valencay 

From  Chenonceau  to  Azay 
AzAY  LE  Rideau    . 
Usse  .         .  • 

Le  Lude 
Castle-in-the-Air 


de     Persigny     and     Cour 


1^H-24.S(J 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Cathedral  of  Tours 
Chateau  de  Cour  Chevernv 
Chateau  de  Chambord    ... 
Kranqois  First  Faqade.     ChAteau  de  Blois 
Louis  XII  Cloister.     Chateau  de  Blois 
Ldiis  XI  Wing.    ChAteau  de  Blois  . 
The  Staircase.     ChAteau  de  Blois 
The  Hall.     ChAteau  de  Blois  . 
Chateau  de  Chaumont-surLoire 
ChAteau  de  Chaumont-sur-Loire 
.\mboise     ....... 

ChAteau  de  Chenonceau    .... 

Chenonceau-sur-Cher 

ChAteau  de  Valenqay         ... 

.\zav-le-Rideau 

ChAteau  D'Uss^.  .... 

Chapel  of  the  ChAteau  D'Ussi    . 


PREFACE 


4  .  T 


For  many  years  it  had  been  my  earnest  desire  to  visit, 
at  his  home  in  France,  an  old  friend,  the  Comte  de 
Persigny.  But  the  difficulties  which  beset  my  path  were 
so  many  and  so  insurmountable,  that  it  seemed  probable, 
at  one  time,  that  my  longing  to  go  to  France  would  never 
be  satisfied.  A  day  came,  however  (at  a  time  when  it 
was  least  expected)  when  the  clouds  of  the  future 
broke  away  from  one  another.  A  clear  sky  appeared 
suddenly  between  them,  and  before  I  was  aware  that  it 
was  a  fact,  I  was  carrying  into  effect  the  dream  that 
had  been  almost  despaired  of. 

Who,  indeed,  has  not  had  some  such  dream  as  this  in 
his  own  life,  at  one  time  or  another,  in  some  form  or 
shape  to  which  he  alone  may  look  back  with  pleasurable 
recollection?  Who  has  not  formed  golden  plans  of  rec- 
reation, of  ambition,  or  of  toil,  to  which  he  has  clung 
fondly  for  years,  and  at  last  realized— sometimes  by  the 
strange  chance  of  circumstance,  and  again,  sometimes  by 
the  sheer  persistency  of  his  own  desire?  And  so,  like 
all  other  dreams  which  we  live  through  in  the  night,  and 
from  which  we  awake  at  the  break  of  day,  my  own  came 
to  an  end  in  the  course  of  time.  But  that  it  might  not  be 
lost  to  me  entirely,  I  endeavored  to  recall  some  of  its 
many  characters  and  incidents. 

Having  been  begun  as  a  short  sketch,  it  grew  somewhat, 
as  the  recollection  of  much  that  had  taken  place  thrust 
itself  fonvard.     I  had  sought  only  to  bring  back  for  my 


Y  .  4 


T .  V 


^g^a^^^ai 


^ 


PREFACE 

own  gratification  an  itinerary  which  had  afforded  me 
many  happy  hours  and  much  recreation.  But  so  full 
of  romance  are  the  Historical  Monuments  of  Touraine 
and  so  ideal  is  the  beauty  of  their  surroundings,  that 
imagination  has  often  overstepped  fact  and  reality.  And 
I  must  crave  forgiveness,  if  the  mists  that  overhang  the 
banks  of  the  river  Loire  have,  at  times,  found  their  way 
between  the  leaves  of  this  volume.  For  though  it  lays 
claim  to  a  certain  correctness  of  description,  in  regard  to 
things  which  actually  exist  in  France  to-day,  it  must  also 
acknowledge  a  degree  of  fancy  and  some  fictitious  char- 
acters. 

Where  two  minds  of  different  nationality  meet,  in 
friendly  intercourse,  there  is  better  opportunity  to  hear 
two  sides  to  any  argument  which  may  occur.  Where  two 
such  minds  wander  through  the  rendezvous  of  art  and 
history  and  power,  swayed  by  the  inclination  to  gather 
some  knowledge  from  the  whole  mass,  there  is  time  for 
speculative  thought.  One  of  them  may  be  engrossed  in 
new  sights  and  scenes  and  in  obtaining  his  own  impres- 
sion of  the  whole,  while  the  other  may  obtain  as  different 
a  view  from  his  very  familiarity  with  it  all. 

Having  been  induced  to  publish  the  papers,  resulting 
from  these  wanderings  through  Touraine,  I  am,  in  offer- 
ing them  to  the  public,  inclined  to  shrink  from  a  possible 
misunderstanding.  For  in  many  cases,  the  words  of 
others  have  been  put  down  as  the  representative  opinions 
of  certain  classes  of  people  in  France,  merely  to  show 
that  they  exist,  and  not  as  individual  convictions.  I 
beg,  therefore,  that  this  may  be  generously  borne  in 
mind  by  those  who  may  chance  to  accompany  us  upon 
these  idle  peregrinations  through  the  "garden  of  France." 

Boston,  1899. 


Two  Gentlemen  in  Touraine 

chaptp:r  I 

THE    ARRIVAL 

"La  Motte!  La  Motte!"  shouted  the  guard.  And  the 
soft  air  of  the  country  was  wafted  in  at  the  window,  free 
from  the  dust  and  dirt  of  town.  A  red  brick  station, 
covered  with  "bengale"  roses  that  were  climbing  over 
the  walls  and  falling  about  the  doors  and  windows, 
appeared  in  sight;  and  we  had  arrived  at  our  stopping 
place,  for  dejeuner. 

Some  hundred  yards  behind  the  station,  there  stood  a 
new  hotel,  or,  more  properly,  an  inn.  On  the  road 
between,  some  carriages  were  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
train.  Dog-carts,  breaks,  hunting  wagons,  driven  by 
servants  in  brilliant  French  liveries,  mingled  with  the 
chatelains  and  the  chasseurs  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
made  a  lively  scene.  I  watched  them  with  some  interest, 
as  they  dashed  off,  in  different  directions,  to  their  cha- 
teaux, for  they  were  my  first  experience  of  French  men 
and  women,  in  the  country. 

An  hour  was  to  elapse  before  I  could  proceed  upon  my 
journey,  through  the  country  of  Sologne,  to  the  chateau 
where  I  was  to  make  a  visit  for  the  f^rst  time  in  France. 
Mv  natural    inclination   drew    me    toward   the    inn.     I 


^a^^^^^^ 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

entered  it,  and  was  about  to  order  mj-  d6jeuner  when  I 
found  that  my  host  had  already  prepared  for  my  arrival, 
and  that  I  was  to  be  served  with  more  than  usual  atten- 
tion. I  learnt  afterwards,  that  this  was  an  honor  which  I 
had  but  scarcely  appreciated,  at  the  time,  for  this  inn  is 
well  known  to  have  the  most  superior  cuisine  of  Sologne. 
It  is  presided  over  by  three  maiden  sisters,  who  are  face- 
tiously known  by  their  clientele  as  "the  three  graces. "  If 
their  name  contains  a  little  French  sarcasm  in  its  wit, 
they  are,  at  all  events,  living  exponents  of  their  good 
cooking,  for  they  are  each  possessed  of  several  hundred 
pounds,  which  the  visitor  is  told,  shows  little  inclination 
to  depart  from  them. 

My  eye  wandered  down  the  long  table  of  the  table 
d'hote,  and  out  into  the  neat-looking  kitchen.  Perhaps  I 
had  some  vain  thought  that  some  one  I  knew  might  sud- 
denly appear  from  among  the  pots  and  pans.  But  the 
guests  who  were  coming  in,  two  or  three  at  a  time,  were 
all  unknown  to  me,  and  I  was  left  to  my  own  meditations 
and  to  the  observation  of  the  scene  around  me.  There 
was  an  air  of  negligence  about  this  country  inn,  a  delight- 
ful disregard  of  the  formality  to  which  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed in  more  public  restaurants.  It  gave  out  the  first 
spirit  of  that  French  spontaneity  and  charm  which  I  was 
later  to  find  so  prevalent  among  this  socially  gifted 
people.  One  of  "the  three  graces" — the  smallest  of  all,  I 
subsequently  discovered,  although  I  confidently  believed 
that  she  must  be  the  largest,  as  my  eye  rested  upon  her — 
was  sitting  at  a  small  table,  peeling  potatoes  and  other 
vegetables,  all  at  the  same  time.  A  second  Grace  was 
busily  engaged  in  swinging  lettuce  to  and  fro,  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  and  she  seemed  to  have  a  lively 
action  to  her  arm.  The  third,  and  by  this  time  beyond 
all  doubt  the  largest,  was  occupied  in  tormenting  the 
contents  of  an  unhappy  frying  pan,  by  tossing  it  up 
and  down,  and  up  again,  over  a  very  hot  and  noisy  fire. 


IHK    ARRIVAL 

Dieu!  what  a  flavor  there  was  escaping  cverj'where; 
what  a  crackling  of  wootlen  branches,  and  what  a 
hopping  and  popping  of  the  contents  of  the  pan!  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  experienced  so  delicate 
an  odor  as  that  which  was  given  out  from  the  culinary 
mysteries  of  "the  three  graces." 

I  might  well  have  remained  all  day,  in  contemplation  of 
the  scene,  and  in  speculating  over  the  possibility  of  such 
an  ensemble  existing  in  any  other  than  a  Latin  country. 
But  I  was  brought  to  myself,  before  many  moments,  by 
one  of  the  Graces,  who  reminded  me  that  the  "tramway" 
would  leave  before  I  was  aware  of  it,  and  that  I  had  yet 
to  do  justice  to  her  arts  in  the  creation  of  a  particularly 
tasteful  d<5jeuner.  The  pleasures  of  feasting  were  soon 
engrossing  my  thoughts.  Thepouletand  the  salade  were 
already  old  friends;  and  the  fromage-a-la-crfeme  had  made 
my  acquaintance,  before  I  had  time  to  make  even  a  formal 
bow  to  so  accomplished  a  production.  The  ver>e  de  vin 
rouge  was  being  drunk  to  the  health  of  the  Graces.  The 
courtesies  of  the  compensation  were  interchanged.  A 
whistle  sounded  from  the  further  side  of  the  station; 
and  it  was  time  to  be  off.  I  waved  a  grateful  farewell  to 
my  three  hostesses,  and  crossed  the  narrow  track. 
Awaiting  me  was  a  miniature  train,  known  in  France  as 
"le  tramway,"  with  a  private  wagon  attached  to  it,  and  a 
porter  in  attendance.  I  stepped  inside,  amid  the  bustle 
of  the  guards  and  laborers,  and  we  started  almost  imme- 
diately, toward  our  destination. 

I  felt  not  unlike  some  "fairie  prince,"  as  we  proceeded 
through  woods  and  forests,  bearing  an  enchanted  air 
which  seemed  to  grow  in  its  enchantment  every  minute. 
The  whole  atmosphere  breathed  a  suggestion  of  dreams 
and  fancies;  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  one's  thoughts  to 
roam  off  into  one's  surroundings.  As  we  travelled  leisurely 
along,  through  the  lines  of  imaginative  foliage,  I  began  to 
feel  that  my  travels  of  many  thousand  miles  were  almost 
3 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 


Y .  T 


r .  i 


tJ 


at  an  end.  The  goal  of  many  years  of  plans  and  antici- 
pations was  now  but  a  short  distance  away. 

After  a  lifetime,  almost,  spent  in  imgratified  wishes  to 
visit  France  and  its  many  places  immortalized  by  tradi- 
tion, I  found  myself  suddenly  in  its  very  heart,  about  to 
meet,  after  years  of  separation,  one  of  my  most  accom- 
plished and  intimate  of  friends,  the  Corate  de  Persigny.  It 
seemed  difficult  to  believe  that  I  could  really  be  in  the 
land  of  early  dreams  and  pictures,  and  to  find  myself 
actually  in  an  atmosphere  which  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  figure  only  on  a  distant  horizon. 

Through  forests,  woods  and  fields,  and  then  again 
through  forests  and  heavy  undergrowth,  we  travelled 
and  I  fell  to  musing  over  the  events  which  were  at 
present  taking  place  in  my  life.  After  a  long  separa- 
tion I  was  at  last  to  find  myself  in  the  company  of 
one  of  my  most  intimate  friends.  It  seemed  to  me,  now 
that  we  -were  about  to  meet,  almost  as  if  we  had  never 
been  parted,  so  strongly  did  the  influence  of  the  present 
moment  force  itself  upon  me.  But  in  reality,  we  had  met 
some  years  before,  at  a  summer  watering  place  in  Amer- 
ica. We  had  been  attracted  to  each  other,  perhaps  by  the 
very  difference  of  our  temperaments,  and  had  been  in  one 
another's  society  almost  constantly  for  a  month.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  our  roads  had  led  us  in  different 
directions,  and  we  had  parted,  not  to  meet  again.  But  so 
much  interested  had  we  been  in  various  discussions,  which 
we  had  had  upon  the  social  questions  of  life,  that  we  had 
opened  a  correspondence,  lasting,  almost  without  a  pause, 
during  the  years  that  had  since  passed. 

And  now  the  meeting  seemed  but  yesterday.  So 
strongly  sometimes  will  a  personality,  possessed  of  Latin 
spontaneity,  impress  itself  upon  an  Anglo-Saxon ;  and  so 
out  of  the  ordinary  range  of  friendships  had  ours  been, 
that  its  early  scenes  were  still  imprinted  upon  my 
memory.  At  the  time  of  our  meeting  I  was  a  young 
4 


THK    ARRIVAL 


man,  filled  with  the  ambitions  and  enthusiasms  of  an 
American  temperament.  The  Comte  was  my  senior  by 
several  years.  He  had  come  to  America  upon  a  diplo- 
matic mission,  and  had  been  fCted  as  a  distinRuished 
foreigner.  I  remember  that  I  had  requested  to  be  intro- 
duced to  him  perhaps  as  much  from  curiosity  as  from  any 
other  motive.  But  we  had  soon  discovered  that  our 
views,  different  in  reality,  had  brought  our  minds  into 
active  relationship  one  with  another.  And  it  had  ended 
in  a  friendship  which  seemed  likely  to  endure  through 
both  our  lives. 

For  years  we  had  contemplated  a  meeting  in  France, 
where  he  had  become  one  of  the  political  figures  of  his 
day.  His  powerful  title,  his  large  fortune  and  his  men- 
tal qualities  had  placed  him  among  the  leaders  of  the 
Conservative  party,  where  he  now  stood  as  one  of  its  con- 
spicuous members.  And  we  were  at  last  to  meet  here, 
after  years  in  which  much  had  taken  place  in  both  our 
lives,  here  in  his  own  countrj-  and  at  the  beautiful  chateau 
which  had  been  the  home  of  his  ancestors  for  over  three 
hundred  years.  The  moment  was  one  of  emotion,  and  I 
found  it  difficult  to  wait  for  the  last  whistle  to  announce 
our  arrival.  But  at  last  the  tramway  began  to  reduce  its 
speed,  and  finally  it  stopped.  In  the  distance,  there 
appeared  a  number  of  peasants  wav-ing  their  hats  and 
handkerchiefs  at  our  arrival.  A  small  village  stood  out 
against  the  sky  behind  them.  And  over  it  arose  the  out- 
line of  a  small  station  surrounded  by  a  crowd,  and  in  the 
centre  of  it  carriages  and  horses.  In  another  moment  I 
was  standing  on  the  platform  of  the  little  wooden 
station,  grasping  the  hand  of  my  friend,  my  dear  friend 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  so  many  years. 

The  crowds  of  peasants  waving  their  welcome,  the 
people  in  their  quaint  costumes,  the  station,  all  faded 
away  before  me,  and  I  lost  sight  of  everything  but  the 
face  of  the  Comte  as  he  pressed  my  hand  in  a  hearty 

5 


T .  y 


r .  Y 


T .  1* 


^a^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

welcome.  His  tall  figure  stood  before  me,  straight 
and  distinctive  in  outline.  I  thought  him  wonder- 
fully little  changed  since  we  had  last  met,  though  he 
spoke  often  of  the  gray  hairs  which  I  found  it  impos- 
sible to  discover  in  his  locks.  He  was  a  noble  type  of  a 
Frenchman,  the  Comte.  His  light  brown  hair  fell  back 
in  a  slight  wave,  from  his  broad  forehead,  showing  two 
large  temples  that  were  neither  high  nor  low,  but  that 
spoke  of  a  wonderful  intelligence  behind  them.  No  one 
could  look  upon  the  Comte  de  Persigny  and  not  be 
sensible  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  man  of  unusual 
qualities.  The  eyebrows,  a  little  darker  than  the  hair 
above,  were  smooth  and  even,  though  they  seemed  to 
protrude  almost  unnaturallj',  owing  to  the  strong  develop- 
ment of  the  forehead.  Beneath  them  shone  a  pair  of 
deep-set  ej'es,  bearing  that  indescribable  look  which  we 
find  in  all  men  who  have  thought  much  and  thought 
deeply.  It  is  difficult  to  convey  the  impression  of  this 
look  in  a  man's  eyes  to  any  one  who  has  not  obsers'ed  it 
for  himself.  There  is  in  it  an  air  of  concentrated  energy, 
shown  by  a  development  about  the  eye,  one  which  bj' 
description  might  apply  to  a  far  different  physiognomy, 
but  which  seen  in  the  actual  man  is  unmistakable.  It  is 
there,  an  indisputable  proof  of  mind  and  intellect,  a  sign 
that  speaks  more  eloquently  for  the  bearer's  qualities 
than  any  speech  or  language  could  describe.  Such  was 
the  chief  characteristic  of  the  Comte's  appearance,  as  I 
looked  upon  him  in  the  full  glare  of  the  morning  sunlight, 
and  tried  to  think  how  to  begin  all  that  I  had  to  say  to 
him. 

At  last  we  spoke,  a  thousand  things  of  no  importance 
in  one  breath,  and  then  a  thousand  others,  before  the 
first  had  been  disposed  of. 

"Well,  my  dear  friend,  welcome  to  Persigny,"  said  the 
Comte,  as  I  alighted.  "It  is  indeed  a  longed-for  pleasure 
come  true,  to  have  you  here.  In  fact,  I  thought  at  one 
6 


/n?^ 


^a^a^a 


IHK    ARRIVAL 


time  that  you  would  never  come  to  us;  but  then  your 
letter  came,  tellinjj  me  of  your  sudden  departure,  and  here 
you  are  in  truth.  You  have  chanjjed  so  little  that  I  am 
almost  inclined  to  believe  that  we  are  not  in  France  at 
all,  but  back  again  where  we  first  met.  Do  you  remem- 
ber it?  What  a  pleasant  month  that  was!  I  have 
amused  myself  in  recalling  its  circumstances  as  I  was 
driving  over  to  meet  you." 

Remember  it!  Had  it  not  been  in  my  mind,  imprinted 
there  in  an  unchangeable  die,  the  years  past,  and  had  it 
not  again  formed  the  picture  of  the  hour  that  had  just 
ended?  I  told  my  friend  as  much,  and  we  turned  to  pass 
through  the  little  station  and  to  enter  his  carriage  amid 
the  cheers  of  the  peasants  and  the  barking  of  a  pair  of 
huge  mastiffs.  The  Comte  jumped  in,  and  seated  himself 
at  my  side.  The  postilion,  clothed  in  a  red  and  green 
liver}-,  cracked  his  whip;  the  great  Percherons  bounded 
forward,  and  we  started.  I  was  indeed  at  my  journey's 
end.  And  we  were  upon  our  way  to  the  chateau.  I  was 
soon  conversing  as  of  old  with  my  friend  the  Comte,  who 
was  asking  of  my  arrival  at  Paris,  of  the  journey  there, 
of  a  number  of  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  all  the 
time  adding  information  as  to  himself  and  his  mother. 

I  had  no  words  at  my  command,  nor  chance  of  express- 
ing them  if  I  had  wished  to,  so  I  contented  myself  with 
listening  to  the  Comte  and  with  taking  in  the  surroundings. 
The  brilliant  livery  of  the  postilion  shone  in  the  sun, 
and  mingled  with  that  of  the  footmen.  The  round  bells 
about  the  necks  of  the  posti6res  jingled  a  merry  chime. 
The  postilion  emphasized  his  "Yuck  hue!"  with  the 
crack  of  his  short-handled  whip,  as  we  dashed  through 
the  long  street  of  the  village.  The  slate  steeple  of  the 
church,  with  its  gilded  cross  and  its  ever-turning  weather- 
cock, was  already  behind  us.  The  old  bell,  having 
rung  the  "Angelus," — as  it  had  done  at  noon  for  no 
one  knows  how  many  years — had  now  ceased  and  was 


H 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

waiting  in  silence  for  the  ending  of  the  day  that  it 
might  begin  again.  Young  women  and  old  were 
leaning  against  the  doors,  or  lower  windows,  of  the 
houses,  which  were  bright  with  pots  of  flowers  in  full 
bloom.  Some  of  them,  still  blushing  roses  of  spring, 
peered  at  us  with  wide-open  eyes  and  dropped  a  curtsey 
with  some  grace,  while  others,  more  like  the  leaves  of 
autumn,  bowed  discreetly,  and  some  even  smiled.  All 
bowed,  all  curtsied;  all  cried  a  welcome  and  cheered  us 
on  our  way. 

Before  long,  the  village  had  become  a  thing  of  the  past, 
and  we  were  rolling  swiftly  over  a  sandy  road,  as  smooth 
as  the  alley  of  some  private  park.  It  seemed  to  me, 
on  beholding,  for  the  first  time,  one  of  these  beautiful 
roads  of  France,  like  a  long  golden  riband,  bordered  by 
emerald  green.  Some  unknown  being  had  unrolled  it,  in 
a  straight  line,  toward  the  horizon.  And  we  seemed  to 
be  driving  straight  into  the  sun,  or  rather  to  where  the 
sun  would  be  some  hours  later.  To  the  right  and  left 
all  was  green,  an  extraordinary  green  such  as  it  was  a 
delight  to  look  upon.  At  times  some  darkened  pines 
would  break  the  fields,  and  then  a  wood  of  heavy  oaks, 
with  here  and  there  the  silver  leaves  of  a  birch  tree 
coquetting  with  the  rays  of  the  sun,  would  appear  in 
sight.  Often  an  indefinite  carpet  of  heath  would  be 
spread  beneath  the  trees,  its  pink  and  violet  shades  giving 
a  delicacy  of  coloring  that  drew  forth  many  an  expression 
of  delight. 

Still  we  rolled  on,  over  the  golden  road.  Here  the 
thatched  roof  of  a  small  house,  on  which  the  dark  moss 
had  grown  so  thick  that  it  had  covered  it  with  a  velvet 
mantle,  was  nestled  in  among  many  trees  and  flower- 
covered  bushes.  A  little  pond  with  ducks,  or  geese,  or 
even  a  brood  of  young  turkeys  on  the  bank,  would  be 
near  by.  Further  on,  a  hut.  whose  pointed  roof  of  earth 
was  overgrown  with  weeds  and    flowers,   poked  up  its 


IHfc    ARRIVAL 

head.  It  had  been  built  by  the  woodcutter,  and  stood 
little  more  than  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  There  he 
lived,  year  in,  year  out.  It  was  his  nest,  the  oak  above 
his  head,  the  pine  needle  as  a  couch.  A  canvas  ba^'  was 
hung  as  a  curtain  to  the  door  and  a  cloud  of  thick  black 
smoke,  making  its  way  through  the  leaves,  told  of  the  lire 
which  was  to  cook  his  mid-day  meal. 

Close  to  the  side  of  the  road  there  appeared  a  lake, 
some  kilometers  in  extent.  Its  waters  were  unruffled, 
save  by  the  ever-growing  circles  of  a  carp  jumping  from 
the  water.  Some  lapwings  were  hovering  above  the 
reeds  that  lined  the  edges.  From  time  to  time  they 
dove  among  them,  to  feed  their  little  ones  within 
the  nest.  High  above,  a  large  and  cruel  hawk  struck 
terror  into  their  gentle  hearts  by  his  wide  and  sweeping 
circles. 

At  length  there  appeared  some  fields  of  wheat  sur- 
rounded by  woods  and  clumps  of  trees.  Above  them 
and  far  in  the  distance,  some  high  slate  roofs  and  chim- 
neys rose  against  the  sky.  They  were  those  of  the 
chateau  toward  which  we  were  directing  our  steps. 
Between  us  was  another  little  village,  nestling  into  a 
valley  which  seemed  but  the  suspicion  of  a  valley  without 
its  reality.  The  road  turned  to  the  left,  and  joined 
another  at  a  slight  incline.  A  cross  of  stone  stood  at  the 
corner,  and  as  our  cavalcade  passed  by,  I  saw  the  Comte 
lift  reverentially  his  hat.  I  realized  that  the  strong 
sentiment  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  predominated 
here.  In  another  moment  we  were  pa.ssing  through  the 
single  street  of  the  village,  and  the  Comte  was  saying: 
"My  dear  friend,  welcome  to  Persigny;  we  arc  here  at 
last,  and  has  it  not  a  picturesque  surrounding?" " 

It  had  indeed.  I  had  never  seen  so  rustic  or  so  artistic 
an  effect.  The  whole  place  seemed  almost  in  miniature, 
—an  ideal  set  in  true  reality.  The  street  itself  was  so 
narrow  that  one  could  cover  it  in  a  single  stride.     The 


Y .  T 


T .  T 


T .  Y 


Y .  V 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

houses,  many  of  them  hundreds  of  years  old,  seemed  to 
me  prettier  and  more  picturesque  than  any  I  had  yet 
seen.  The  brilliant  whiteness,  that  makes  often  even  the 
houses  of  a  village  harsh  to  the  eye,  was  absent  here. 
Instead  of  it,  the  walls  and  their  surroundings  were  soft- 
ened in  a  hundred  tints  and  colorings,  by  dirt  and  age. 
The  roofs  were  covered  with  red  tiles,  that  had  long  been 
covered  with  a  coating  of  moss,  and  were  in  some  places 
falling  in  and  reaching  down  a  long  beam,  or  rafter,  into 
the  courtyard.  Clusters  of  grape  vines,  or  wild  roses,  were 
to  be  seen  at  all  points,  overhanging  doors  and  windows. 
Pots  of  flowers,  or  some  green  plants,  gave  color  to  a  win- 
dow-sill, an  old  wall,  or  a  patch  of  earth.  Here  and  there 
a  house,  a  little  older  than  its  fellows,  would  be  built  of 
red  bricks,  laid  diagonally,  and  set  with  cross-beams  and 
timbers  black  with  age.  A  single  cottage  was  covered 
with  the  thatched  roof  so  common  in  Normandy,  but 
which  is  seldom  found  in  this  portion  of  the  country.  It 
was  the  "presbyt^re" ;  and  close  by,  rose  the  steeple  of 
the  little  church.  Its  plastered  walls  and  slated  roof, 
much  higher  than  the  country  church  in  England,  its  nar- 
row steeple  with  the  pointed  spire,  which  seemed  to  pierce 
the  lowest  clouds  that  floated  in  the  sky,  its  stonework 
about  the  door,  all  told  that  it  was  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. The  little  garden  of  the  "presbytere"  was  alive 
with  flowers  and  creeping  vines,  that  covered  its  encir- 
cling wall  completely.  On  the  threshold  of  his  door 
stood  "Monsieur  le  Cur6,"  his  gray  hairs  catching  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  as  he  waited,  with  his  head  uncovered,  to 
offer  us  a  welcome. 

We  paused  a  moment,  that  the  stranger  from  foreign 
shores  might  thank  him  for  his  courtesy,  and  shake  his 
hand.  Poor  man;  he  had  thought  to  see  some  strange 
creature  in  a  dress  unknown  to  him  and  with  a  darkened 
skin.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  persuaded 
that  the  stranger  was  really  like  those  among  whom  he 


THE    ARRIVAL 


had  lived  for  sixty  years,  so  different  had  he  expected 
him  to  be! 

As  we  passed  on,  once  more,  I  noticed  that  every  door 
was  filled  with  some  rustic  figure  and  that  every  window 
had  some  head  within  it.  Many  clapped  their  hands  and 
shouted  as  we  passed,  while  others  were  waving  hats  and 
handkerchiefs.  The  little  public  square  was  crowded 
with  a  score  or  two  of  peasants,  who  had  assembled  to 
give  us  a  rustic  welcome.  And  as  we  passed  by  we 
bowed  our  acknowledgments  to  the  cries  which  came  to 
us  from  all  sides,  and  "Vive  Monsieur  le  Comte! 
Vive  Monsieur  le  Comte!"  sounded  in  our  ears  as  we 
drove   on. 

Soon  we  had  passed  the  village  and  were  at  the  gates 
of  the  park.  In  another  moment  I  gave  a  cry  of  sudden 
delight.  As  we  entered  the  long  avenue  leading  to  the 
chateau  a  scene  of  rare  and  unexpected  beauty  appeared 
before  us.  We  had  just  entered  a  large  hollow  rectangle 
at  least  a  kilometre  in  length,  and  hemmed  in  upon  the 
right  and  left  by  walls  of  drooping  oak  trees.  The 
centre  of  this  rectangle  was  occupied  by  a  sheet  of  water, 
— a  canal,  as  my  friend  called  it.  Its  waters  were  dotted, 
here  and  there,  by  the  white  wings  of  swans.  And  at  its 
farthest  boundary  the  high  roofs  of  a  chateau  of  the 
period  of  Louis  XIII  were  reflected  in  the  water.  So  still 
was  everj'thing,  and  so  like  a  mirror  was  the  lake,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  another  chateau  had  been  placed  symmetri- 
cally underneath  the  one  that  rose  from  the  beautiful 
lawn  leading  to  its  rush-covered  bank.  And  yet  it  was 
but  a  reflection  of  the  pure  architecture  above,  a  photo- 
graph of  the  reality.  We  were  traversing  one  of  the 
great  avenues  which  ran  on  either  side  of  the  canal,  and 
met  in  front  of  the  "marquise"  of  the  chateau.  Tall 
trees  lined  the  way,  and  shaded  us  from  the  heat  of  the 
mid-day  sun,  while  giant  palms  in  massive  wooden  tubs, 
waved  above  the  head. 


i .  T 


Y ,  4 


r .  Y 


V .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


"My  dear  friend,  what  a  beautiful  spot  is  this  that  you 
live  in!"  I  exclaimed.  "Why  did  you  never  tell  me  that 
it  was  like  this?" 

The  Comte  looked  at  me  with  a  pleased  expression  on 
his  countenance.  "I  thought,"  said  he,  "that  some  day 
you  would  come  and  see  it  for  yourself,  and  so  I  would 
not  spoil  your  first  impression  of  it  by  description.  You 
see  that  I  was  right,"  he  added,  with  a  smile. 

As  we  approached  nearer  to  the  chateau,  I  could 
scarcely  find  time  to  absorb  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
around  me,  nor  could  I  find  words  with  which  to  express 
my  feelings.  An  arch,  formed  by  overhanging  trees, 
enveloped  us  for  a  moment,  and  as  we  emerged  from  it 
we  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  chateau.  Several  per- 
sons were  standing  about  it  to  receive  us,  and  as  we 
alighted,  the  Comte  turned  to  a  lady,  a  little  taller  than 
the  others,  saj'ing:  "This  is  my  mother;  once  more,  my 
dear  friend,  welcome  to  Persigny. ' ' 

The  Comtesse  de  Persigny  smiled  a  welcome  to  me  and 
extended  her  hand  with  the  utmost  cordiality.  I  seemed 
at  once  to  become  one  of  her  own  family.  For  the  stiff- 
ness of  which  the  representatives  of  the  older  noblesse  of 
France  are  sometimes  accused,  melts  away,  with  their 
grace  of  manner,  when  they  wish  to  admit  any  one 
to  a  more  intimate  relationship.  And  the  most 
formal  members  of  a  secluded  aristocracy  become  the 
most  congenial  of  companions,  to  those  whom  they 
receive  among  them.  I  was  soon  introduced  to  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  standing  near  us,  and  I  afterwards 
discovered  that  they  formed  part  of  the  company  that 
were  staying  at  the  chateau.  They  at  once  besieged  me 
with  many  questions  about  myself,  my  countxy  and  my 
journey  to  France.  So  many  were  they,  however,  and  so 
indifferent  was  my  command  of  the  French  language, 
that  I  fear  many  of  them  remained  unanswered.  But 
my  interlocutors  passed  over  my  unsuccessful  attempts 


THE   ARRIVAL 

at  conversation  with  .1  lauph,  or  with  some  witty  remark, 
and  we  soon  passed  into  the  chateau. 

Here  I  was  at  last,  and  I  was  to  take  up  for  a  time 
the  Ufe  and  customs  of  a  Frenchman.  The  atmos- 
phere around  me  had  indeed  changed,  and  I  began  to 
realize  that  I  was  truly  in  a  strange  land,  led  by  stand- 
ards and  ideas  far  different  from  my  own.  The  fascina- 
tion of  it  grew  upon  me,  as  the  life  into  which  I  had  thus 
suddenly  fallen  impressed  itself  upon  the  mind;  and  as  I 
wound  my  way  to  my  room,  through  many  ancient 
corridors  and  passages,  I  felt  almost  that  it  was  some 
strange  dream,  rather  than  reality. 


»3 


T .  Y 


T .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  V 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    CHATEAU    DE    PERSIGNY    AND    COUR    CHEVERNY 


PART   I 


THE   CHATEAU    DE    PERSIGNY 


The  morning  after  my  arrival,  I  must  own,  I  experienced 
an  unusual  disinclination  to  begin  the  day.  My  room  was 
strangely  inviting,  with  its  polished  floor,  its  light  painted 
wookwork,  and  its  hangings  of  chintz.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  sun  had  never  shone  so  brightly  as  it  did  on  everj'- 
thing  in  the  room,  this  summer  morning  in  the  month  of 
August.  At  last  I  could  resist  it  no  longer,  and  I  got  up, 
and  opened  my  window,  with  some  difficulty,  for  the  old 
fastenings  had  many  turns  and  twists,  and  it  needed  some 
persuasion  to  induce  them  to  work.  I  was  rewarded, 
however,  by  a  breath  of  the  soft  air,  scented  with  honey- 
suckle and  flowers,  which  arose  from  some  beds  beneath 
my  window. 

The  picture  outside  was  so  fair,  that  I  lingered  some 
time  at  the  open  casement,  admiring  it.  The  whole  sur- 
rounding seemed  so  tranquil  and  full  of  peace  that  I  fell 
to  dreaming  again  before  I  knew  it,  and  was  only  awakened 
by  the  "bon  jour.  Monsieur,"  of  a  fresh  looking  maid 
who  was  on  her  way  to  the  potager. 

It  was  not  far  from  harvest  time,  and  the  fields  that 
stretched  away  for  some  distance,  on  three  sides  of  the 
chateau,  were  covered  with  a  rolling  carpet  of  golden 
wheat.     The  tall,  thin  blades  were  glittering  in  the  rays 


THE    CHATEAU    UE    I'ERSKJNY 


of  the  sun,  and  whispering  to  one  another,  with  every 
breath  of  the  jjentlc  air.  Over  toward  the  left,  some 
pines  were  arranjjed  in  a  long,  straight  line,  so  high,  their 
tapering  pinnacles  seemed  to  prick  the  little  clouds  that 
were  hovering  above  them,  and  so  long  and  regular  in 
their  growth,  that  the  avenue  seemed  but  an  endless  line 
of  yellow  sand.  A  little  brook  wound  its  way  in  and  out, 
between  two  banks  of  moss  and  bushes.  Now  it  seemed 
lost  completely,  and  I  could  hear  it  weeping,  like  a  child. 
Now  it  had  found  its  way  again,  and  was  smiling  and 
laughing  to  itself,  while  a  swan  flapped  its  great  wings 
in  the  water. 

I  turned  from  the  brook  and  its  little  life,  from  the 
swan,  and  from  the  rustic  bridge,  so  old  that  moss  and 
weeds  hung  from  it,  and  were  mirrored  in  the  brook.  I 
turned  from  these,  only  to  meet  a  rural  picture  of  greater 
beauty  on  the  other  side.  Another  line  of  trees  grew 
here,  greener  than  the  last,  though  not  so  large.  They 
were  elms,  grown  so  as  to  make,  what  the  French  call 
a  charmille,  in  other  words,  an  arched  tunnel  of  trees, 
stretching  for  some  hundred  yards.  The  avenue  beneath 
the  feet  was  of  soft,  velvety  grass,  and  was  cut  so  short 
that  it  seemed  almost  like  a  rug.  The  trees  were 
clipped,  so  as  to  make  an  even  wall,  and  the  light  that 
peeped  in  between  the  leaves  fell  upon  them,  in  a  manner 
that  suggested  an  enchanted  palace  studded  with  precious 
stones.  Among  the  trees,  a  thick  coating  of  ivy  grew 
over  everj-thing,  and  long  arms  of  it  reached  up,  over 
their  dark  trunks,  as  if  to  clutch  the  leaves  that  grew  upon 
the  lowest  branches.  Man  and  nature,  art  and  taste, 
were  combined  in  so  intricate  and  delicate  a  work,  that  it 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  these  were  really  trees  and 
grass,  instead  of  fairj'-like  creations. 

What  a  romance  could  be  written  of  the  French  charm- 
ille, that  treasure  of  the  park,  in  which  it  is  ever  the  most 
perfect  portion!     What  thoughts  and  inspirations  would 


i .  i 


T .  "i" 


f .  V 


T .  Y 


^^I^^l^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

it  not  raise  in  the  minds  of  those  who  wander  over  the 
soft  green  carpet  to  the  tiny  nook  at  its  farther  end,  and 
then  sit  against  the  marble  statue,  brought  from  Italy 
perhaps,  and  dream  away  more  than  one  happy  hour  in 
the  cool  and  shade !  How  many  of  us  have  done  just  such  a 
thing!  And  how  many  more  of  us  would  long  to  do  like- 
wise !  Was  there  ever  a  more  romantic  spot  for  lovers  to 
meet,  and  there  to  forget  all,  save  peace  and  happiness? 
Was  there  ever  a  more  perfect  setting  for  a  poet's  fancy 
than  the  charmille  of  some  chateau's  park?  Surely,  there 
could  never  be.  And  so  I  thought,  as  I  gazed  down  at 
the  one  beneath  me,  which  had  been  engrossing  my  atten- 
tion so  particularly. 

A  sharp  "rap,  rap,  rap,"  at  my  door  announced  that  the 
Comte  was  up  and  about.  And  I  turned  from  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  without,  to  say  good  morning  to  him. 

"I  have  been  enjoying  the  beauties  of  the  garden  about 
your  chateau,"  said  I.  "Why  have  you  never  told  me  how 
much  there  was  here — so  artistic  and  so  fair}--like?  Why, 
I  almost  imagined  myself  in  a  land  of  dreams  and 
fancies,  as  I  was  airing  myself  at  the  window. ' ' 

The  Comte  answered  my  remark  with  a  smile  of 
pleasure. 

"Yes;  it  is  a  lovely  spot,  and  it  seems  to  become  more 
and  more  attractive  to  me  every  day.  I  have  made  a 
great  many  improvements  since  I  inherited  the  chateau. 
And  if  you  will  come  out  with  me,  we  will  take  a  walk 
through  the  stables  and  gardens  and  view  a  part  of  the 
park.  But  I  fear  that  you  will  be  tired  if  we  attempt 
to  do  the  whole  of  the  park  in  one  day,  for  it  is  over  ten 
miles." 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  have  to  work  up  my  way  to 
that,"  I  replied.  "But  I  will  be  with  you  in  a  few 
moments,  and  we  will  then  see  everything  that  you  care 
to  show  me,  before  dejeuner." 

I  dressed  myself,  and  hastened  to  join  the  Comte.  But 
16 


w 


I 


IHt    CHAItAU    UE    FtRSlGNY 

on  my  way  down,  I  met  some  of  the  fjuests  of  the 
chateau.  The  Marquise  de  la  Sij^e,  an  elderly  dowager, 
with  a  wonderful  complexion,  and  a  color  to  her  hair  that 
was  surprising  considering  her  age,  accosted  me  at  the 
second  landing  of  the  staircase.  I  bowed  politely,  and 
she  held  out  her  hand  for  me  to  kiss.  I  performed  my 
duty  to  her  evident  satisfaction,  for  she  tapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan,  and  added: 

"Monsieur  est  tout-ii-fait  Frani^ais.  Vraiment,  tout  ce 
qu'il  y-ade  plus  Franijais.  J'esp^re  que  Monsieur  a  trfes 
bien  dormi?"  And  this  last  inquiry  she  accompanied 
with  the  slightest  inclination  of  her  head. 

"Oh,  very  well,  thank  you.  And  now  I  am  going  out 
to  view  the  park,  with  our  host.  May  we  not  have  the 
pleasure  of  your  company?" 

"Oh,  Monsieur  is  too  kind.  But  I  never  go  out  before 
the  afternoon,"  replied  the  Marquise  with  a  shake  of  her 
head.  "I  haven't  been  out  in  the  morning  for  two  years. 
It  is  so  bad  for  the  complexion,  you  know,"  she  added, 
with  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eye.  "But  if  you  are  not  too 
tired,  with  your  exertions  this  morning,  we  will  walk  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  charmille,  after  tea — when  the 
sun  has  set.  Life  is  so  much  pleasanter  when  the  sun 
has  set."  And  my  interlocutor  waved  her  hand  in  a 
graceful  farewell. 

I  thought,  as  I  wound  my  way  down  to  the  gallery 
below,  that  the  Marquise  de  la  Signe  must  indeed  be  a 
philosopher  to  have  decided,  at  her  age,  that  the  simset 
was  the  pleasantcst  portion  of  life.  And  I  could  not  help 
thinking  what  a  pity  it  was  that  more  people  were  not  of 
her  turn  of  mind.  In  the  gallerj-,  I  encountered  the  beau 
of  the  party,  le  Prince  de  Gourmet — an  old  friend  of  the 
Comte's  mother,  a  perfect  type  of  the  French  nobleman, 
of  high  position,  but  of  low  purse,  who  loves  the  best  of 
everything  and,  somehow  or  other,  always  obtains  it,  an 
indispensable  addition  to  every  respectable  chateau,  to 

17 


^a^a^^^^^s 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


ever}'  salon  and  to  every  hotel  in  the  Faubourg  Saint 
Germain.  Perhaps  the  Comtesse  de  Persigny  had  once 
entertained  the  idea  of  becoming  a  princess.  Perhaps 
even  the  Prince  had  had  serious  thoughts  of  making  a 
permanent  residence  at  the  chateau.  There  was  no  tell- 
ing. But  somehow  or  other,  the  Comtesse  never  changed 
her  name,  and  the  Prince  had  never  made  the  contem- 
plated stay.  He  still  came  for  his  three  weeks  in 
August  and  his  fortnight  in  December, — for  Christmas, — 
and  was  always  the  life  of  the  party,  the  ever  welcome 
guest,  and  nothing  more. 

If  Madame  de  la  Signe's  maid  had  unknown  ways  of 
making  her  mistress's  head  seem  twenty  years  the 
younger,  certainly  the  Prince's  valet  had  discovered  an 
"elixir  of  life"  by  which  his  master  should  never  grow 
old.  The  Prince's  age  no  one  had  ever  known.  In  fact, 
he  was  even  known  to  have  said  that  no  gentleman — 
or  lady  either — ever  had  an  age.  If  any  did  have  an 
age,  why,  all  he  could  say,  was,  that  they  could  not  be 
ladies,  or  gentlemen.  As  for  him,  he  had  never  been 
born  at  all.  He  had  found  himself  in  Paris  one  day,  and 
had  found  it  so  pleasant  there  that  he  had  stayed  ever 
since,  and  should  do  so  always.  He  had  never  been  out  of 
France,  and  never  would  go  under  any  consideration, 
never — never.  Thus  the  matter  was  settled,  and  the 
Prince's  friends  had  begun  to  believe  that,  after  all,  he 
probably  never  had  been  born,  and  never  would  die. 
He  had  remained  the  same  for  so  many  j'ears,  there 
was  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  would  continue  to 
do  so.  Thus  the  Prince  had  become  a  permanent  fixture 
in  French  society,  a  pillar  of  the  Faubourg  and  an  indis- 
pensable addition  to  all  country  parties. 

Before  saying  good  morning  to  so  unique  a  character  as 

le  Prince  do  Gourmet  it  was  impossible  to  refrain  from  an 

admiring  glance  at  his  appearance.     Yes,  there  could  be 

no  question,  his  valet  understood  the  art  of — what  shall 

18 


THE   CHATtAU    DK    FKRSIGNY 

\vc  call  it? — the  art  of  wiggling — yes,  anil  the  art  of  dyeiiiy 
and  painting  and  powdering  and  dressing, — in  fact,  all 
the  arts  which  could  possibly  enter  into  the  toilet  of  a 
gentleman,  a  perfect  gentleman  of  the  old  school.  The 
Prince's  hair  was  of  a  beautiful  greyish  brown — a  little 
powder,  that  was  all,  and  electrified,  so  as  to  stand  up  or 
lie  down,  so  as  to  bristle  like  the  spikes  of  a  porcupine, 
or  curl  like  a  baby's  ringlets.  It  was  a  wonderful  head 
of  hair.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to  its  superiority. 
There  was  no  rival  to  it.  It  was  the  first  of  its  kind  in 
France.  A  certain  barber  in  the  Rue  Castiglione  had 
made  his  fortune  by  it.  And  this  I  heard  later  from  the 
Comte  himself.  All  the  world  knew  it,  and  all  the  world 
went  there,  now,  he  affirmed,  if  they  wished  to  look 
comme  il  faut.  I  must  go  when  I  returned  to  Paris.  I 
would  go. 

The  Prince  had  been  out  for  an  early  airing  this  morn- 
ing, and  was  attired  in  a  short  jacket  of  buff-colored  stufif, 
fitted  in  at  the  waist  to  a  marvelous  degree.  Knicker- 
bockers, of  a  different  shade,  encased  the  Prince's  limbs, 
and  the  buckles  at  the  knees  were  hidden  by  the  tops  of 
the  long  stockings,  knit  by  no  less  a  personage  than  the 
Comtesse  de  Persigny  herself.  Ah,  Cupid,  Cupid!  where 
would  you  not  lead  us?  Where  would  you  not  show  your 
face  and  strike  your  persistent  arrow?  Not  many  years 
ago  you  may  have  pointed  your  bow  and  arrow  at  a  lady's 
cheek.  And  now  it  is  upon  the  victim's  calves!  There 
they  were,  the  light  brown  stockings  with  their  great 
squares  of  different  colored  worsted;  there  they  were, 
resplendent,  upon  a  pair  of  padded  calves.  A  faint 
suspicion  of  dust  upon  his  boots  told  that  Monsieur 
le  Prince  had  been  to  walk  around  the  garden,  up  the 
avenue,  and  home  through  the  potager,  where  he  had 
picked  his  daily  bunch  of  bleuettes  (pink  bachelor's  but- 
tons grown  especially  for  him),  which  he  had  picked 
for  years  on  his  daily  walk  that  never  varied.     He  was 

«9 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T ,  T 


T .  Y 


T.Y 


V .  T 


looking  at  some  miniatures  as  I  entered  the  gallery,  and 
turned  from  them  to  hold  out  his  hand  to  me  and  wish  me 
a  graceful  good  morning. 

"Monsieur  a  bien  dormi,  j'espfere,"  said  he  with 
a  dozen  bows,  to  which  I  found  it  difficult  to  do  jus- 
tice. It  seemed  to  me  that  almost  everj'  one  here  took 
an  extraordinary  interest  in  one's  sleep.  I  supposed  that 
the  reason  must  be  that  French  people  did  not  sleep.  At 
least  it  seemed  so,  judging  from  the  time  at  which  most  of 
them  rose  in  the  morning.  But  as  I  had  never  been 
annoyed  by  insomnia,  I  did  not  give  the  matter  any 
deeper  thought,  and  followed  up  the  Prince's  polite- 
ness by  inviting  him  to  accompany  us  upon  our  tour  of 
inspection. 

"Ah — hdlas!  C'^tait  impossible" — with  at  least  a 
dozen  shrugs  of  the  shoulders — "I  was  too  kind.  I  was 
a  charming  American,  so  different  from  what  he  had 
imagined  them.  I  was  not  red,  nor  dark.  I  had 
no  feathers.  I  was  tout  a  fait  fran^ais.  But  he  had 
taken  his  walk.  He  never  walked  again,  after  his 
walk  was  once  over.  A  thousand  thanks!"  I  really 
began  to  think  that  I  must  be  tout  h  fait  frangais.  And 
I  left  the  Prince  to  his  miniatures,  and  joined  my  friend 
to  see  the  stables  and  the  garden. 

I  found  him  standing  on  a  glass-covered  terrace,  over- 
looking the  beautiful  entrance  to  the  chateau.  I  am 
wiser  now  than  I  was  then,  and  may  call  this  glass- 
covered  terrace  a  "marquise,"  that  almost  universal  ele- 
ment of  a  French  hotel  or  chateau.  It  seemed  particularly 
bright,  I  thought,  almost  too  much  so,  and  I  wondered 
why  the  ironwork  had  not  been  painted  black,  instead  of 
white.  But  when  I  mentioned  the  fact  to  the  Comte,  I 
received  an  imperative  order  never  to  suggest  such  a 
thing  in  France.  Ironwork  was  never  painted  black  in 
France.  It  might  be  in  England,  or  even  in  America. 
But  I  must  remember  that  I  was  in  France  now.     Here 


THE   CHATEAU    DE    PERSIGNY 


it  was  always  white  or  gTay  or  sometimes  silver.  We 
stood  a  moment,  taking  in  the  beautiful  scenes  open- 
ing before  us,  and  then  the  Comte  broke  the  silence. 

"I  did  not  have  time  yesterday  to  tell  you  why  I 
dragged  you  away  from  Paris  so  soon,"  said  he.  "We 
had  not  been  together  for  so  long  that  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  once  again  and  under  such  different  circum- 
stances, of  picking  up  the  threads  that  had  been  dropped 
or  lost  altogether,  occupied  all  my  thoughts  at  our  meet- 
ing and  every  moment  of  yesterday.  I  am  looking 
forward  to  the  next  few  months — for  you  are  not  to  think 
of  going  before  the  late  autumn — with  more  pleasurable 
anticipation  than  I  can  well  express.  In  fact,  to  tell  the 
truth,  my  English  is  not  up  to  the  undertaking.  I  fear 
it  has  become  rather  neglected  of  late,  for  it  is  over  a 
year  since  I  have  been  in  England,  and  nearly  ten  months 
since  I  have  spoken  a  word  that  was  not  French. 

"But  I  must  tell  you  why  I  wished  you  to  come — apart 
from  our  'fete  de  famille'  of  to-day.  I  am  anxious  to 
start  to-morrow  on  a  tour  of  the  beautiful  chateaux  of 
Touraine,  of  which  you  have  so  often  written  me,  and  to 
which  we  have  so  often  contemplated  a  visit.  One  of 
them,  the  Chateau  de  Cour  Chevemy,  is  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, and  we  will  start  for  it  early  to-morrow  morning, 
if  you  are  not  too  tired  of  this  continual  movement.  We 
would  wait  another  week,  but  the  season  is  late,  and  I 
am  anxious  for  you,  who  are  so  fond  of  flowers,  to  see 
the  parterres  and  gardens  of  some  of  these  chateaux 
while  they  are  at  their  best.  I  know  so  many  of  their 
owners  that  we  shall  see  them  in  an  interesting  way. 
What  say  you?     Shall  we  go  to-morrow?" 

Of  course  I  agreed,  with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure 
at  the  thought  of  seeing  the  wonders  of  Chambord 
and  Blois,  of  Chenonceau  and  Azay-le-Rideau.  remem- 
bering the  romance  and  history  lurking  among  their 
beautifully  ornamented  towers  and   walls.      Visions   of 


i .  T 


^ihh§-^ 


f .  V 


i .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAIXE 

Catherine  de  Medici,  of  Francois  I,  of  Henry  II,  and 
Henry  III,  of  the  beautiful  Diane  de  Poitiers,  and  last 
but  not  least,  of  the  unhappy  Marie  Stuart,  arose 
before  me  in  an  enchanted  picture  that  carried  me 
back  into  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the 
happier  Renaissance. 

Go?  Of  course  I  would  go.  In  spite  of  the  beauties  of 
the  park  and  the  gardens  of  the  Chateau  de  Persigny,  I 
could  scarcely  wait  for  the  morrow,  that  we  might  start 
on  this  long-projected  trip.  How  happy  I  was  at  the 
thought !  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  not  been  so  happy  since 
the  day  I  had  left  school  and  realized  that  it  was  a  thing 
of  the  past.  I  believe  that  I  was  more  interested  than 
the  Comte,  though  he  was  in  very  good  spirits  and 
almost  as  enthusiastic  as  I  over  the  intended  tour. 

"This,  indeed,  is  what  I  have  always  wished  to  do," 
said  he,  "but  I  have  never  found  just  the  person  to  do  it 
with  me.  It  is  necessary  to  be  rather  more  than  simply 
genial  to  travel  alone  in  this  way.  One  must  be  truly 
fond  of  the  subject,  and  willing  to  put  up  with  some 
inconveniences.  For  the  auberges  are  not  always  of  the 
best,  and  the  weather  is  sometimes  very  hot.  But  in 
spite  of  this,  I  am  sure  that  we  shall  enjoy  it.  We  will 
go  a  little  out  of  the  beaten  track  and  visit  the  beautiful 
chateaux  of  Valen^ay  and  of  le  Lude.  For  in  the  gar- 
dens of  this  last  there  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
terraces  in  France." 

"I  agree  to  everything  in  advance,"  I  replied.  "And 
would  it  not  be  a  good  plan  to  go  on  foot  some  of 
the  way?  If  it  is  possible,  I  should  like  very  much  to  do 
so.  I  have  always  wished  to  take  a  walking  tour.  I 
have  always  longed  to  travel  in  a  perfectly  "laissez 
aller"  fashion,  studying  the  country  and  the  rural  life  as 
I  wandered  along,  stopping  here  and  there,  to  speak 
to  a  peasant,  or  some  other  members  of  a  lower  class, 
and  if  possible,  to  form  some  idea  of  their  condition  of 


THK    CHATKAU    DK    PKRSIGNY 


mind  and  of  the  motives  which  actuate  their  ways  of 
thinking." 

"Admirable,  men  ami,  admirable,"  exclaimed  the 
Comtc,  as  we  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  a  large  iron 
grille  on  our  left.  "Admirable.  I  join  you  in  your  mood 
completely.  And  to  make  the  whole  idea  a  perfectly 
rural  one,  we  will  ask  Monsieur  le  Curd  to  take  us  to  the 
station  at  Mur,  in  his  old,  rustic  pony-carriage.  We 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  victorias  or  postibres.  The 
placid  'Bichette,'  the  old  pony  of  the  Cut6,  who  has 
eaten  so  many  extra  rations  of  oats,  and  nibbled  at  so 
many  of  the  neighboring  lawns,  that  she  can  scarcely 
waddle  along  the  even  roads,  shall  be  our  rustic  steed. 
And  Monsieur  le  Cut6  himself  shall  be  our  guide,  as  far 
as  the  station  at  all  events." 

So  it  was  decided ;  and  as  we  passed  through  the  iron 
grille  toward  which  we  had  been  directing  our  steps,  we 
proceeded  to  give  ourselves  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
stables  of  Persigny,  though  I  fear  that  our  hearts  were 
far  too  full  of  the  anticipation  of  the  morrow. 

I  could  not  refrain  from  uttering  a  word  of  admiration 
as  we  entered  one  of  the  great  courts  of  the  stables.  It 
covered  an  area  of  at  least  an  hectare,  enclosed  by  long, 
low  buildings.  In  the  center,  a  large  stone  basin  rose, 
high  above  the  head,  as  did  the  soft  spray  of  a  fountain 
springing  from  it.  At  the  further  end  of  this  court  a 
second  gate,  whose  ironwork,  though  less  elaborate,  was 
as  effective  as  the  one  which  was  now  behind  us,  opened 
into  another  court.  The  buildings  and  arrangements 
there  were  not  unlike  those  of  the  first,  save  that  they 
were  used  for  the  farms  and  their  various  appendages, 
instead  of  for  the  horses  and  carriages  of  the  chateau. 

"As  you  see,  all  our  horses  are  on  this  side  of  the  court, 
and  the  carriages  upon  the  left,"  said  the  Comtc,  as  we 
stood  by  the  fountain.  And  as  I  looked,  I  could  see 
carriages,  of  all  kinds,  ranged  in  a  long  row  against  the 

-3 


^a^SK 


H 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

wall.  They  looked  wonderfull}'  inviting,  with  their 
shining  red  wheels  and  green  bodies,  while  here  and 
there  was  one  painted  to  imitate  basket  work.  I  felt 
almost  sorr>'  that  we  had  decided  to  be  so  rustic  upon  our 
trip;  buttheComte  "pooh-poohed"  my  nonsense.  I  was 
altogether  too  fond  of  luxury,  but  we  would  have  none  of  it 
here.  We  were  to  be  all  for  art  and  architecture  and  the 
study  of  those  marvels  of  the  French  Renaissance,  with 
the  history  connected  with  them — "at  least,  with  as 
much  of  it  as  possible,"  I  put  in,  for  I  had  no  idea  of 
attempting  to  absorb  all  the  historj'  that  was  lurking 
about  Touraine.  We  would  devote  a  little  energy  to 
each  subject,  and  end,  in  all  probability,  by  knowing 
nothing  valuable  about  any  one  of  them.  But  then,  that 
was  so  natural,  and  so  like  most  of  the  world,  that  we 
might  as  well  content  ourselves  with  this  principle  of 
being  "a  Jack  at  all  trades  and  a  master  of  none."  The 
Comte  was  inclined  to  object  to  this,  as  being  too  much 
the  tendency — and  the  evil  tendency,  moreover — of  our 
age.  He  said  that  this  was  the  great  trouble  to-day  and 
that  he,  for  one,  and  I,  for  two,  must  not  follow  in  such 
mediocre  footsteps. 

The  old  wooden  gate  of  the  potager  had  closed  behind 
us,  by  this  time,  and  we  were  sauntering  down  a  long 
box-lined  alley,  between  rows  of  tiny,  distorted  apple 
trees.  They  could  not  have  been  more  than  a  foot  high, 
and  seemed  to  be  so  crippled  and  deformed  that  their 
limbs  had  to  be  supported  upon  sticks  and  wires.  The 
old  plaster-covered  wall  on  our  right  was  covered  with 
creeping  vines  of  pears  and  apples,  while  a  few  last 
bunches  of  wall-roses  hung  in  clusters  here  and  there. 
Long  lines  of  mignonette  and  heliotrope  followed  one 
another  in  an  untrained  mass.  Dahlias  and  sunflowers, 
at  the  back,  lent  their  effective  lights  and  shades  to 
beautify  the  picture  which  we  were  now  enjoying.  Soon, 
the  potager  with  its  hot-beds,  its  flowers,  its  vegetables, 

24 


THE   CHATEAU    DE    FERSIGNY 

its  gardeners  and  all  its  quiet  rural  life  faded  away  behind 
us,  and  we  wore  wandering  through  long  alleys,  lined 
with  underbrush  and  covered  with  grass.  For  nearly 
twenty  miles,  the  Comte  told  me,  the  whole  park  was 
covered  by  this  network  of  avenues,  stretching,  it  seemed, 
for  endless  distances  in  a  straight  line,  and  cut  at  inter- 
vals by  other  avenues  leading  no  one  knew  where. 
Many  of  these  my  friend  himself  had  never  explored,  nor 
could  one  do  so,  even  if  one  would,  so  many  were  they, 
and  so  confusing  were  they  in  their  likeness  one  to 
another. 

After  walking  some  time  in  the  honey-scented  air,  we 
came  to  a  small  open  space,  where  nine  of  these  avenues 
met  one  another  and,  as  if  angry  at  having  been  discov- 
ered, dashed  away  again  in  all  directions.  We  sat 
a  moment  in  the  shade  of  a  tall  post,  which  held 
up  a  number  of  signs  bearing  the  names  of  the  various 
avenues.  These  were  named  after  members  of  his 
family,  the  Comte  explained  to  me,  as  we  made  our  way 
to  a  little  farm  not  far  away,  where  the  tenants,  over- 
joyed at  Monsieur  le  Comte's  visit,  pressed  their  best 
wine  upon  us.  We  were  obliged  to  drink  it,  to  the  last 
drop,  lest  they  should  be  offended,  and  I  doubt  if  it  was 
much  effort  to  me,  for  it  was  far  better  than  many  of  our 
own  wines. 

At  last,  it  was  time  to  return,  and  we  thanked  the 
kindly  peasants,  complimenting  them  upon  the  condition 
of  their  cottages,  upon  their  farm  and  upon  everything, 
in  fact,  that  it  was  possible  to  praise.  The  whole 
family  followed  us,  as  we  departed,  bowing  and  curtsey- 
ing, till  we  were  at  some  distance  from  their  humble 
dwelling.  And  we  returned  to  the  chateau  by  grass- 
grown  lanes,  and  by  the  "charmille,"  to  find  the  Prince 
de  Gourmet  impatiently  awaiting  his  d(5jeuner.  "It  was 
after  midi;  what  could  be  the  matter?  En  effet,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  about  it,  the  dejeuner  was  at  least  five 

-'5 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 


T .  Y 


T .  V 


fj 


Y .  y 


minutes  late,"  and  the  maitre  d'  hotel  was  severely  repri- 
manded (because  the  gentlemen  had  been  out  walking 
and  he  had  waited  for  them). 

A  pleasant  surprise  took  place  that  evening.  It  was 
the  fete  day  of  Madame  la  Comtesse,  and  such  bustling 
among  the  maitre  d'hotel,  the  footmen  and  the  entire 
culinary  department,  such  preparations  and  running 
hither  and  thither,  could  not  easily  be  imagined.  As  we 
entered  the  dining-room  for  dinner,  after  having  formed 
a  procession  in  the  furthest  drawing-room  and  made  a 
tour  of  all  the  others,  we  saw  the  result  of  these  elab- 
orate preparations.  The  great  dining-room  of  the 
chateau  had  been  transformed  into  a  bower  of  plants 
and  flowers.  Orchids  hung  from  the  walls  and  covered 
the  centre  of  the  dinner  table.  Upon  the  sideboard 
at  the  further  end  of  the  dining-room  was  displayed  the 
great  service  of  gold  plate,  which  made  its  appearance 
only  twice  a  year,  or  upon  some  special  occasion.  As  we 
sat  down  to  dinner  pistol  shots  were  heard  outside  the 
window  and  some  fireworks  threw  their  variegated 
lights  into  the  room.  The  effect  was  emphasized  by  the 
cheers  of  the  tenantry,  who  had  formed  in  a  circle  before 
the  chateau  to  pay  their  tribute  to  Madame  la  Comtesse 
on  her  fete  day. 

The  cheers  were  so  persistent  that  the  Comte  was 
forced  to  go  to  the  window  and  to  make  a  graceful  speech 
in  thanks,  which  elicited  only  more  enthusiasm  from  the 
loyal  tenantry.  At  last  the  dinner  was  served,  much  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  Prince  de  Gourmet,  who  was  seated 
at  the  right  of  the  hostess  and  who  received  a  rose  from 
her  bouquet  after  all  was  over,  a  little  attention  which 
had  taken  place  for  no  one  knows  how  many  j'ears. 

As  we  parted  later  in  the  evening,    I  felt  a  sincere 

regret  that  the  first  day  at  the  chateau  had  come  to  an 

end,  and  that  we  were  again  to  travel  on  the  morrow. 

But  sorry  as  I  was  to  leave  a  place  to  which  I  had  so  long 

26 


■*• .  T 


T ,  V 


f .  I 


T .  V 


COUR    CHKVtRNY 

looked  forward,  it  was  difficult  to  complain,  with  such  an 
interesting  journey  before  us.  So  we  bade  affection- 
.Uc  au  revoirs  to  all  before  retiring,  and  prepared  to  start 
early  the  next  morning.  The  Marquise  pressed  my  hand, 
and  begged  me  to  come  and  sec  her  at  her  hotel  in  the 
Faubourg.  The  Prince  wished  us  good  luck  on  our 
journey,  and  Monsieur  le  Curd,  who  had  been  invited  to 
the  chateau  for  dinner,  left  us  to  prepare  the  pony  and 
cart  for  the  drive  to  the  station. 


i .  Y 


PART    II 


COUR  CHEVERNV 


At  an  early  hour  we  were  up  and  out,  to  be  in  time  for 
Monsieur  le  Curd  and  to  meet  him  at  the  village.  It 
would  save  at  least  half  an  hour  if  Bichette  did  not  come 
to  the  chateau.  So  we  decided  that  it  was  both  shorter 
and  simpler  to  go  to  her. 

The  mail  had  just  arrived  as  we  reached  the  little 
plaster-covered  cottage  that  served  as  the  postoffice,  and 
the  postmaster,  who  untied  the  bags  in  a  tiny  room 
opening  upon  the  highway,  handed  us  our  letters  as  we 
paused.  A  grand  collection  of  many-colored  envelopes 
they  were,  bearing  in  their  right-hand  corners  bright 
stamps  of  many  nationalities.  And  many  hopes  and 
fears,  such  as  only  mails  may  inspire,  were  raised  within 
us,  only  to  remain  hopes  and  fears  for  the  present, 
as  Monsieur  le  Curd  had  just  drawn  up  with  Mile. 
Bichette  and  the  antiquated  pony  cart.  We  were  forced 
to  start  at  once  that  we  might  not  lose  the  train.  To 
be  sure,  it  did  not  leave  for  two  hours;  but  then  we  had 
eight  miles  to  go,  and  this  was  a  good  deal  for  so  portly 
a  dowager  as  Bichette.  But  never  mind,  we  resolved  to 
bum  a  candle  to  Notre  Dame  if  the  temptations  of  the 
road  were  not  too  much  for  her,  so  we  arrived  in  time. 
27 


T .  *• 


T .  T 


TWO    GEN  TLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

Allow  me  to  introduce  to  the  company  this  dignified 
lady,  upon  whose  kindly  mercies  we  had  thrown  our- 
selves. We  have  made  a  mistake.  It  is  Madame 
Bichette,  and  not  Mademoiselle — Madame  Bichette,  the 
only  possible  companion  for  a  worthy  cut6  de  cam- 
pagne,  Madame  Bichette,  a  most  respectable  and 
deliberate  pony  who  renders  many  valuable  services  to 
her  dear  master.  With  her  he  goes  from  one  steeple  to 
another,  from  a  fellow  cur6  to  a  neighboring  chateau,  and 
returns  home  by  rain,  sunshine,  or  moonlight. 

At  last  we  were  seated  and  ready.  ' '  Will  you  be 
kind  enough  to  start,  Bichette?"  says  Monsieur  le  Cure. 
And  after  tossing  into  the  air  an  intruding  fly  which  had 
just  settled  upon  the  end  of  her  nose,  Bichette  began  to 
move — carefully,  "piano,  sano. " 

Drops  of  rain  from  an  almost  cloudless  sky  showed 
signs  of  a  dampness  in  the  atmosphere  which  is  discourag- 
ing to  any  one  who  rejoices  in  bright  and  sunny  expedi- 
tions. However,  we  kept  our  anxiety  to  ourselves  lest 
we  should  disturb  Bichette,  who  had  just  reached  the 
climax  of  her  powers,  a  gentle  trot,  or  more  properly  a 
waddle,  that  shook  the  pony  cart  with  ever>'  step.  We 
kept  our  anxiety  to  ourselves,  I  say,  and  opened  our 
letters,  in  spite  of  the  rain. 

"Hue,  Bichette!     Allons,  gentiment!" 

And  as  we  were  tossed  up  and  down,  until  our  teeth 
were  nearly  rattled  out  of  our  heads,  the  news  from  home 
and  from  abroad  danced  up  and  down,  down  and  up, 
before  our  eyes,  like  an  ignis  fatuus. 

Dear  me !  So  and  so  is  married,  and  scarcely  realizes  it. 
Another  one  is  dead,  and  others  still  see  the  day.  But 
never  mind.  Our  business  this  morning  is  to  catch  the 
train,  and  Monsieur  le  Cur6  whispers  unknown  induce- 
ments to  Bichette,  unknown  things  that  cause  her  to  trot 
along  as  fast  as  possible,  mindful  only  of  the  flies. 

Two  little  villages,  with  miniature  streets  and  almost 
38 


.,w^ 

-^^k 

■  '  - 

^^>A^9^^^vv 

^Bw^       — ,     — 

'^^» 

r 

■■  IT'^' 

^^^ 

^ 

M  f .. 

IBHBP/^ 

a 

-  •  ^^^^^'   V            irl 

7 

^^^^^^^^K 

^^^^^K' 

wKkr 

- 

^K 

5 

^Bgjf^"^'*- 

-v-^^ 

^ 

iIh 

L 

■jHl*       fl^Ky^iln                      "^    ' 

'  'ulU        \  nl^^^^^H 

W 

^^BC^^HkiE^^^ 

COUR    CHKVKRNY 

miniature  houses,  were  passed  through,  and  left  behind. 
The  old  walls  of  a  deserted  monastery  appeared  on  our 
right,  great  hanging  branches  of  ivy,  vines  and  roses 
clinging  to  them  in  a  confused  mass.  And  they  fade 
away  again  behind  us.  Bichette  is  surprised,  even  at  her- 
self, and  is  well-nigh  overcome,  by  the  time  we  reach  the 
little  station  of  soft  white  stone,  which  is  our  destination. 
After  a  time,  the  engine  and  its  long  line  of  carriages  come 
rattling  and  shambling  along.  And  we  make  no  end  of 
"au  revoirs"  to  Madame  Bichette  and  to  Monsieur  Ic 
CnrC:  The  latter  is  very  sorrj'  that  he  cannot  accompany 
us  further;  but  he  has  promised  to  breakfast  with  a 
friend  near  by.  Bichette  pokes  out  her  head,  and  neighs, 
a  long,  contented,  lazy  neigh.  Her  master  bares  his  ven- 
erable head  with  only  a  few  silver}-  locks  left,  and  as  the 
train  whistles,  and  puflfs  off,  we  can  see  his  black  form 
standing  by  the  side  of  his  companion.  A  pretty,  rural 
picture  that  leaves  a  kindly  impression  upon  those  who 
have  been  looking  at  it  I 

We  had  intended  to  go  straight  to  Blois  when  we  set 
out  from  the  beautiful  surroundings  of  the  Chateau  de 
Persigny ;  but  like  most  intentions,  made  in  all  good  faith, 
this  did  not  long  remain  unbroken.  In  spite  of  showers, 
the  day  was  beautiful  in  its  coloring,  and  little  clouds 
were  dotted  over  the  clear  blue  sky,  like  tiny  bits  of  snow- 
white  fleece,  just  severed  from  the  coat  of  some  young 
lamb.  Now  and  again  some  darker  clouds  appeared,  and 
these  were  sometimes  followed  by  a  large,  black  mass  that 
hid  a  thunderstorm.  We  ran  into  one  of  these,  en  route 
for  Blois;  and  as  the  train  flew  through  it,  the  verdant 
vineyards,  the  brilliant  fields  of  wheat,  the  undulating 
country,  changed  at  ever>'  moment,  in  a  variety  of  shapes 
and  colors  that  were  rendered  even  more  wonderful  by 
the  storm. 

It  was  impossible  to  gaze  at  these  ever-moving  pic- 
tures of  nature  without  a  feeling  of  joy.     The  dark  green 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Y ,  T 


T .  T 


V .  T 


of  the  pine  forests,  in  the  distance,  shaded  by  the  softer 
tones  of  oaks  and  elms,  and  countless  others  in  the  fore- 
ground, made  one  realize  the  inspiration  that  must  have 
governed  Poussin  and  Claude  Lorraine.  The  rows  of 
tall  and  sharply-cut  poplar  trees,  whose  thin  contours 
broke  the  lines  of  the  scenery  at  every  turn,  only  added 
to  the  intensity  of  the  scene  and  at  the  same  time  seemed 
to  lend  it  a  magic  touch.  One  could  almost  imagine, 
yonder,  in  the  long  dark  groves,  a  classic  temple  erected 
to  some  goddess  of  mythology,  and  a  closer  gaze  would 
raise  up  forms  and  figures  flitting  to  and  fro  in  the  shade 
— reclining  by  the  side  of  white  marble  columns,  or 
bending  over  classic  fountains. 

But  just  as  I  began  to  catch  a  faint  glimpse  of  these 
pictures  of  another  world,  I  was  aroused  from  my  reverie 
by  my  companion. 

"What  can  you  say  in  praise  of  our  French  scenery 
after  your  enthusiasm  over  England?"  the  Comte  broke  in. 

"Ask  me  rather  what  I  cannot  say  in  praise  of  it,"  I 
replied.  "But  since  you  speak  of  England,  I  will  say 
that  I  should  call  the  English  scenery  domestic.  It  is 
clothed  with  a  domestic  charm,  an  almost  miniature  pic- 
turesqueness  which  I  thought  unrivaled  when  I  first  saw 
it.  And  it  certainly  is  ixnrivaled  in  its  way.  But  I  am 
sure  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  the  scenery  here,  though 
still  domestic,  is  strung  in  a  higher  view.  Apart  from 
the  picturesque  charm  which  characterizes  it,  it  possesses 
a  dignity  and  a  variety  of  coloring  not  to  be  found  in 
England." 

"You  are  right,"  the  Comte  replied.  "I  have  always 
thought  that  myself.  I  think  the  poplar  trees,  so 
common  everywhere  in  France,  are  largely  responsible 
for  it.  But  look,"  said  he,  turning  suddenly  to  the  win- 
dow, "there  are  the  roofs  of  the  chateau  of  Cour  Che- 
verny.  The  rest  of  the  building  is  hidden  behind  the 
trees." 


30 


-?► 


COUR    CHEVERNY 


"We  should  have  stopped  here  on  our  way  to  Blois," 
said  I. 

"It  is  perfectly  possible  to  do  so  now,  and  we  will," 
exclaimed  the  Comte,  seizing  our  bags  and  umbrellas  in 
true  French  excitement.  But  alas,  just  as  we  were  about 
to  get  out  of  the  carriage  the  train  started,  so  that  we 
decided  to  stop  at  the  little  station  of  Mont  and  walk  back 
to  Cour  Chevemy,  a  few  miles  this  side  of  it. 

"Here  we  are  at  last,"  said  ray  companion,  as  we 
alighted  finally  in  the  midst  of  a  second  thunderstorm. 
"Now  we  shall  have  a  walk  through  pretty  country,  and 
I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  the  chateau  which  we 
are  about  to  visit." 

We  were  soon  walking  along  a  wood-lined  road,  some- 
what muddy  after  the  shower,  and  on  which  the  trees, 
above  and  at  the  side,  continued  to  drop  shining  par- 
ticles of  water,  that  looked  like  pearls  or  diamonds  in  the 
afternoon  sunlight.  They  were  chiefly  pines,  the  trees 
about  us  now ;  but  as  if  unwilling  to  be  excluded  from 
any  gathering,  stray  clumps  of  poplars  could  be  seen 
rearing  up  their  tall  thin  heads  above  the  others.  Here 
and  there,  a  little  stream  might  be  discovered,  winding 
its  way  along  through  a  bit  of  wood,  and  sometimes 
diving  down  beneath  the  road  as  we  passed  above. 
Some  old  and  trembling  boards  ser\'ed  as  a  bridge,  as 
they  had  these  twenty  years,  and  doubtless  would  for 
twenty  years  to  come.  Out  came  the  moving  bit  of 
water  again,  only  to  jump  down  a  tiny  bank  and  lose 
itself  at  last  in  some  muddy  pool.  Now  an  open  space 
would  appear,  and  a  little  farm  house,  almost  covered 
with  vines  (almost  hidden  beneath  the  moss  and  lichen 
that  g^ew  upon  it),  would  nestle  itself  in  against  a  back- 
ground of  dark  trees.  Only  patches  of  its  red  tiled  roof 
would  appear,  and  these  almost  black  with  age,  while 
the  soft  green  of  the  moss  harmonized  with  the  rest. 
Amid    such    picturesque  and    peaceful  surroundings   we 

3' 


4  .  i 


Y ,  i 


f .  V 


T .  i 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


fell  to  speaking  of  the  chateau  before  us  and  of  other 
things  until  at  last  the  conversation  took  a  deeper  tone, 
I  remember  that  I  returned  to  my  favorite  theme  of 
comparing  France  with  England,  perhaps  a  dangerous 
one  considering  my  companion.  But  at  all  events  before 
I  knew  it,  I  found  myself  saying: 

"What  differences  there  are,  what  interesting  differ- 
ences there  are,  between  the  lower  classes  of  the  three 
countries:  America,  England  and  France!  One  seems  to 
find  even  more  points  in  common  between  these  last  two 
countries  than  between  the  first." 

"I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that,"  the  Comte 
replied,  "considering  what  an  impassable  barrier  the 
English  Channel  has  always  been  between  the  characters 
of  French  and  English  people.  Their  attempts  to 
understand  one  another  seem  as  futile,  at  times,  as  an 
attempt  to  bridge  over  that  stormy  bit  of  water. " 

"The  affinity  between  the  lower  classes  of  England  and 
France,"  I  replied,  "is  the  result  of  Europe,  while  that 
between  the  corresponding  classes  of  England  and  Amer- 
ica is  the  outcome  of  blood  relationship.  And  I  fear  that 
in  this  case  Europe  has  been  more  far-reaching  in  its 
effects  than  blood.  What  I  mean  is  just  this,  that  the 
cultivation,  and  especially  the  civility  of  the  French  and 
English  country  people,  peasants  if  you  like,  is  far 
greater  than  it  is  among  the  corresponding  classes  of 
America.  In  France  especially,  the  courtesy,  the  genial 
good  will,  until  offended,  and  the  interest  in  the  most 
refined  and  artistic  things,  is  very  noticeable.  In  Eng- 
land, the  peasantry — perhaps  I  should  call  them  the 
tenantry  there — are  as  picturesque  in  their  life,  and  as 
civil  in  their  address.  But  they  are  less  communicative. 
They  are  well  informed  only  upon  the  particular  subject 
to  which  they  have  been  born  and  bred.  This  they 
know,  with  that  thoroughness  which  is,  perhaps,  one  of 
the  greatest   characteristics  of  the  English  race.      And 


COUR    CHEVERNY 

the  interest  which  they  take  in  their  subject  .ind  in  their 
own  special  phase  of  life,  is  most  attractive  and  inviting 
to  study.  Here,  on  the  contrarj',  the  peasants  seem  to 
show  a  much  more  varied  knowledge  of  what  is  going  on 
around  them.  And  they  display  a  more  general  fond- 
ness for  the  things  of  beauty  that  surround  many  of  their 
lives.  Verj-  naturally  their  knowledge  is  less  thorough ; 
and  probably  if  one  investigated  it,  one  would  find  very 
little  actual  intelligence.  But  the  love  of  art  for  which 
the  French  people  are  so  renowned  seems  to  have  come 
out  in  every  class,  even  in  the  lowest,  although  it  may  be 
oddly  mixed  with  the  utmost  simplicity  and  ignorance. 

"In  America,  as  well  as  in  many  parts  of  England,  the 
effect  of  a  rapid  and  popular  legislation  for  the  lower 
classes — offer  far  too  popular — has  been  to  raise  their 
ideas  and  ambitions  far  above  their  means  or  their 
powers  of  perception.  By  this  legislation  they  are  given 
powers  and  privileges  to  which  they  are  incapable  of 
doing  justice,  as  well  by  their  education  as  their  place  in 
society.  As  we  see,  the  results  are  discontent  and  in 
many  cases  a  chaotic  overthrow  of  classes,  as  well  as  of 
an  entire  social  order." 

The  Comte  was  silent  for  some  minutes  after  I  had 
finished  speaking.  He  was  evidently  thinking  over  the 
various  questions  that  presented  themselves  in  so  large  a 
subject  as  this  comparison  and  discussion  of  classes.  At 
last  he  said: 

"I  have  always  thought  that  the  proper  solution  of  this 
great,  this  almost  universal  problem  of  to-day,  is  not  the 
assimilation  and  eventual  destruction  of  classes — for  this 
would  be  obviously  impossible  while  men  live — but  on  the 
contrary,  a  proper  ordering  and  division  of  these  classes, 
and  more  than  anything  of  their  relative  behavior  one 
to  another.  The  present  troubles  all  over  the  world,  in 
Europe  as  well  as  in  America,  have  come,  almost  invari- 
ably, from  the  fact  that  various  members  of  society  abuse 

35 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 

the  responsibilities  of  their  positions.  They  come,  more 
than  anything,  from  the  master  maltreating  his  servant 
and  from  the  ser\'ant  turning  against  his  master.  One  of 
these  is  as  culpable  as  the  other,  and  has  almost  always 
been  so.  The  one  class  has  been  as  much  at  fault  as  the 
other,  and  I  do  not  know  but  that  the  master  is  most 
to  blame,  for  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  he  has  begun  the 
abuse.  Whatever  their  behavior  may  be,  however, 
neither  of  these  classes  can  live  without  the  other. 
Therefore,  the  most  philosophical  way  of  living  would  be 
for  each  class  to  work  for  the  other's  interest,  each  in  its 
own  particular  position,  instead  of  continually  endeavor- 
ing to  change  places  one  with  another.  However  much 
they  try,  classes  will  never  succeed  in  changing  places. 
By  so  doing,  they  not  only  fail  in  their  object,  but  they 
do  much  to  destroy  cultivation  and  order.  Until  men 
open  their  eyes  wide  enough  to  see  this,  all  the  radical 
legislation  in  the  world  will  not  eifect  its  boasted  object 
of  bettering  the  condition  of  the  lower  classes.  As  far 
as  I  can  see,  from  the  results  that  we  have  around  us,  it 
seems  only  to  embitter  them." 

The  Comte  had  been  speaking  earnestly,  in  answering 
the  questions  which  the  conversation  had  called  up  to 
both  our  minds.  Perhaps  he  had  some  flagrant  example 
of  this  very  subject  before  his  mind  to  give  more 
vehemence  to  his  words.  It  was  difficult  for  me  to  tell, 
so  short  had  been  my  actual  experience  among  his  sur- 
roundings. But  at  all  events,  I  learned  from  what  he  said 
that  we  were  both  of  the  same  opinion  in  regard  to  this 
subject,  however  divergent  we  might  discover  ourselves  to 
be  upon  others.  I  was  glad  that  we  had  touched  upon  this 
topic,  as  of  late  it  had  been  much  impressed  upon  my 
own  mind.  And  I  looked  forward  to  some  future  discus- 
sions of  the  same  great  problem  with  an  almost  youthful 
enthusiasm,  so  eager  are  we  all  in  this  world  to  dip 
deeply,  perhaps  often  too  deeply,  into  those  social  ques- 

34 


COUR   CHEVERNY 

tions  with  which  we  are  incapable  of  battling.  But 
besides  this,  there  was  something  deeper  and  more  full  of 
meaning  to  me  in  this  short  conversation  upon  a  serious 
subject.  For  it  told  me  that  many  fears  which  I  had 
hud  upon  my  travels,  fears  which  all  of  us  have  felt  and 
which  I  had  forced  back,  almost  before  they  had  had  time 
to  form  themselves  and  to  appear  before  my  mind,  had 
been  unfounded.  The  Conite  and  I  had  not  met  for  so 
long,  we  had  lived  such  different  lives  during  that  time, 
among  such  different  people  and  in  such  different  sur- 
roundings, that  there  seemed  every  reason  for  us  to  have 
developed  different  ideas,  tastes,  and  sympathies.  And 
while  I  had  been  traveling  through  the  north  of  France 
three  days  before,  I  had  been  unable  to  hide  from  myself 
the  possibility  of  the  existence  of  just  this  thing.  The 
thought  was  almost  a  sad  one ;  for  it  had  cast  a  shadow 
over  an  otherwise  cloudless  sky.  What  if,  after  the  cor- 
respondence which  had  taken  place  between  us,  and  the 
desire  on  both  our  parts  that  the  philosophical  subjects 
discussed  in  it  should  be  of  permanent  benefit  to  our- 
selves— what  if,  when  we  met  again,  our  views  had 
changed  and  we  should  find  only  disappointment  and 
delusion?  ^Vhat  if  after  our  decision  to  spend  a  month 
together  in  France,  devoted  largely  to  conversations 
upon  our  favorite  topics,  we  should  find  that  we  had 
ceased  to  be  congenial?  The  thought  and  the  fears 
which  it  brought  with  it,  were  not  unnatural  after  all. 
How  many  of  us  have  found  just  this  delusion  in  our 
lives,  more  than  once,  and  each  time  found  it  to  be  more 
painfully  real!  How  many  of  us  have  built  a  beautiful 
ideal  upon  that  fair-sounding  name  of  Friendship,  and 
found  to  our  regret,  too  late,  that  we  had  failed,  and  that 
the  wall  fell  in  one  moment,  after  it  had  taken  years  to 
build!  How  many  of  us  there  are!  We  dare  not  even 
stop  to  think  how  many. 
So  I  found  in  my  particular  case,  with  my  Comte,  my 

35 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  Y 


T .  Y 


tJ 


Y .  Y 


old  friend  whom  I  had  loved  and  admired  and  with  whom 
I  had  built  castles  in  the  air  for  so  many  years,  that  my 
ideal  was  not  to  fall  entirely,  and  that  at  all  events  some 
portion  of  the  wall  would  stand.  This  indeed  was  secure, 
even  if  the  rest  should  crumble  and  break  in  pieces. 
There  were  some  things  that  could  be  depended  upon, 
and  there  was  a  good  chance  of  finding  more.  So  I  was 
glad,  nay,  more  than  glad.  I  was  happy;  for  my  mind 
was  reassured,  and  there  are  few  things  in  this  world 
that  make  us  happier  than  reassurance. 

Our  conversation  and  our  thoughts,  and  my  own  sub- 
sequent contemplations  had  brought  us  to  a  turn  in  the 
road  which  led  into  a  long  lane.  An  old  bridge  whose 
stones  were  blackened  by  dirt  and  time  (so  that  they  were 
now  almost  as  dark  as  the  muddy  stream  beneath  them), 
arose  some  distance  on.  Before  long  we  were  standing 
upon  it,  and  admiring  a  tiny  valley  of  green  grass  and 
bulrushes,  that  grew  especially  green  about  its  centre. 
At  the  end  of  the  lane  and  close  to  the  bridge,  stood  a 
picturesque  little  inn,  whose  pointed  roof  of  reddish  tiles 
was  broken  at  the  top  by  a  heavy  line  of  pink-white 
mortar.  All  seemed  to  add  to  the  invitation,  hanging 
just  above  the  door,  which  announced  this  little  tavern 
to  be  a  "Debit  de  Vin." 

"I  am  going  to  introduce  you  to  a  beverage  which  is 
a  favorite  one  with  us,"  said  the  Comte,  as  we  sat 
down  within  the  little  cottage,  at  a  long  table,  beside 
which  there  stood  some  benches  of  a  rustic  pattern. 

"Bon  jour.  Messieurs,"  said  the  mistress  of  the  estab- 
lishment, a  kindly  looking  woman  of  some  fifty  summers, 
which  she  bore  with  noticeable  ease  beneath  her  white 
cap.  Its  broad  top,  and  wide  ends,  tied  behind  a  gener- 
ous chignon,  showed  it  to  be  that  cap  which  is  worn  by 
all  the  women  of  this  region  and  which  it  is  impossible  to 
forget  when  once  seen. 

"Bon  jour,  ma  brave  femme,"  returned  the  Comte. 

36 


COUR    CHliVKRNY 


"H61as!  Messieurs,  que  mauvais  temps  nous  avons 
pour  les  r(5colettesI"  added  the  woman,  with  a  very 
stronjj  accent.  "And  what  will  ces  messieurs  take  to 
refresh  themselves?" 

"Ces  messieurs"  would  take  a  little  curacoa  and 
water,  if  she  pleased.  Of  course  she  pleased,  and  off  she 
went  to  get  it. 

"La c'est  bien,"  said  the  Comte,  with  a  contented 

sign,  as  she  placed  the  glasses  and  a  jug  of  water  before 
us. 

"Click"  went  the  glasses  in  a  hearty  health  to 
madame;  and  down  went  the  curacoa  in  a  surprising 
manner.  And  then  we  sat  a  moment  taking  in  our 
quaint  surroundings  and  thinking  that  perhaps  another 
glass  of  curacoa  and  water  might  help  us  upon  our  way. 
Indeed,  I  took  to  curacoa  and  water  like  a  true  French- 
man, and  the  Comte  was  delighted  at  the  success  of  his 
receipt. 

I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  picturesque  and  mellowed 
scene  in  that  little  "Debit  de  Vin."  If  I  had  been  an 
artist,  a  painter,  I  might  perhaps  have  caught  the 
inspiration  of  some  olden  days  and  kept  it  upon  a  bit  of 
canvas.  But  I  was  not,  alas,  and  it  was  to-day  and  not 
yesterday  in  which  we  were  living,  however  much  I 
might  wish  it  to  be  otherwise.  So  I  contented  myself 
with  taking  in  all  that  my  eyes  could  grasp,  and  I  have 
the  scene  yet  before  me,  as  clearly  as  it  was  when  I  was 
there. 

The  old  walls  were  darkened  with  age  and  tobacco 
smoke,  and  the  simple  woodwork  was  so  mellowed  and 
so  softened  in  its  coloring  by  the  misty  haze  of  time 
that  it  might  have  been  the  most  artistic  carving.  A 
great  cupboard,  of  the  time  of  Louis  XV,  stood  in  the 
comer,  scarcely  visible  among  the  shadows  and  the  little 
clouds  of  smoke  about  it,  yet  seeming  to  say:  "Ah,  if 
you  only  knew  one-half  the  things  that  have  taken  place 

37 


i .  T 


T .  X 


f .  *i 


i .  r 


TWO    GENTLExMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


before  my  old  and  worm-eaten  doors!  If  you  had  only 
witnessed  one  quarter  of  the  scenes  that  I  have  wit- 
nessed, how  happy  would  you  be!  I  have  a  past  that 
no  one  knows,  and  that  no  one  will  ever  know.  I  have 
the  secrets  of  many  a  noble  family  locked  into  my 
depths,  and  I  could  tell  you  stories  that  would  open  your 
youthful  eyes  if  I  chose — stories  of  centuries  ago  that  no 
one  knows,  and  that  no  one  will  ever  know."  And  the 
old  face,  carved  in  the  pane,  just  above  the  doors  of 
the  cupboard,  seemed  almost  to  wink  its  eyes  and 
move  its  lips,  talking  to  itself.  I  was  becoming 
strangely  infatuated  with  the  old  cupboard,  I  found,  as 
well  as  with  its  surroundings.  The  room  was  growing 
hazy  with  smoke,  and  its  mistress  had  betaken  herself 
to  a  corner,  and  was  now  darning  stockings.  I  thought 
once  more  that  the  picture  was  worthy  of  a  master 
hand,  and  then  I  was  awakened  from  my  dreams. 

The  crack  of  a  whip  was  heard  outside,  and  as  we 
peered  through  the  rather  dirt)'  window-pane,  we  could 
see  an  old,  private  omnibus  draw  up  at  the  door.  It  was 
drawn  by  a  very  portly  pair  of  French  horses.  A  still 
more  portly  French  coachman  was  seated  upon  the  box, 
swathed  in  a  black  French  livery.  He  was  seated,  I  say, 
but  it  would  be  more  correct  to  describe  him  as  balancing 
himself  upon  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  a  very  high  cushion. 
It  was  built  up  in  the  middle,  so  as  to  form  a  species  of 
tower,  from  which  he  looked  down  upon  the  rest  of  the 
world.  His  face  had  a  wistful  expression,  as  though  he 
would  say:  "How  shall  I  ever  get  down?"  At  all 
events,  it  had  the  desired  effect  of  looking  eminently 
respectable,  eminently  old,  and  above  all,  eminently 
comfortable. 

In  some  unaccountable  way,  while  we  were  not  looking, 
the  coachman  had  managed  to  roll  down  from  his  digni- 
fied position,  and  to  roll  himself  into  the  one  and  only 
room  of  the  "Debit  de  Vin."     His  octogenarian  livery 

38 


^aii^a^a^^ 


COUR    CHEVtRNY 

seemed  to  breathe  forth  ape  and  respectability  at  every 
wrinkle.  His  great  black  hat  was  milled  up  the  wrong 
way,  not  unlike  a  turkey  gobbler  when  it  has  been  dis- 
pleased. And  the  heavy  whip  which  he  dragged  at  his 
side  nodded  condescendingly  to  right  and  left  as  he 
entered.  In  another  moment  he  was  drinking  his  glass 
of  white  wine  with  an  old  soldier,  who  had  a  number  Qf 
war  stories  to  tell  in  a  patois  that  was  difficult  to  under- 
stand. We  arose  to  go,  and  once  outside,  stood  for  some 
moments  looking  at  this  little  rural  tavern  with  its  air  of 
quaintness,  thinking  of  the  scene  and  of  the  characters 
within.  The  coachman  came  out,  to  mount  once  more 
upon  his  precarious  perch,  and  seeing  that  we  were  on 
foot,  he  took  the  liberty  of  offering  us  a  lift,  with  a  great 
deal  of  bowing  and  scraping  and  a  good  deal  of  embar- 
rassment at  making  advances  to  the  "messieurs." 

"If  the  messieurs  are  going  as  far  as  Cour  Cheverny, 
perhaps  I  could  give  them  a  lift.  It  is  several  kilometres 
from  here.     I  am  going  there  for  Madame  la  Baronnc 

de  M ,  who  is  returning  from  Paris."     And  with  this, 

the  coachman  took  off  his  hat  with  a  tremendous  flourish, 
bowed  lower  than  most  of  those  who  rejoice  in  so  generous 
a  figure  are  able  to  do,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  omni- 
bus. It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  intend  us  to  see  his 
ascent  to  the  box.  Perhaps,  we  thought,  he  might  be 
sensitive  upon  this  point,  so  the  Comte  contented  him- 
self by  looking  through  a  comer  of  the  front  window,  just 
to  satisfy  his  curiosity.  At  last  we  were  ready,  and  the 
horses  were  wound  up  and  set  in  motion,  like  so  many 
automatons.  And  the  wheels  began  to  move,  and  wc 
realized  that,  somehow  or  other,  the  old  coachman  of 
Madame  la  Baronne  was  more  limber  than  he  had 
looked. 

"Pauvre  Madame  de  M !"  sighed  the  Comte,  as  we 

jogged  along  the  even  road,  with  a  fourth  thunder-storm 
lowering  over  our  heads.     "Pauvre  Madame  la  Baronne! 

7,0 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Little  does  she  realize,  as  she  sleeps  away  the  last  hour 
of  her  journey  from  Paris,  the  good  uses  to  which  her 
omnibus  is  being  placed.  My  dear  friend,  have  you  a 
two  franc  piece?     I  have  used  up  all  my  change." 

I  had,  and  the  Comte  could  breathe  more  easily,  now 
that  his  sudden  fear  was  allayed.  Before  many  minutes 
we  were  in  the  little  town  of  Cour  Cheverny,  and  leaving 
our  kindly  friend  the  coachman,  with  many  thanks  and 
with  the  two  franc  piece,  we  proceeded  at  once  to  the 
gates  of  the  chateau. 

And  what  was  the  first  impression  which  we  received? 
What  effect  upon  us  was  produced  by  the  approach  to  the 
first  of  this  wonderful  group  of  historical  monuments, 
which  we  were  about  to  visit?  Alas,  I  fear  it  was  a  little 
of  a  disappointment,  for  although  the  estates  of  Cheverny 
are  very  large,  the  cultivated  portion  of  the  park  is  only 
fifty  acres.  The  entrance  is  therefore  a  little  unsatisfac- 
tory, although  it  is  impossible  to  be  indifferent  to  its 
picturesque  surroundings. 

An  old  arch,  built  of  pinkish  brick  and  cream-white 
stone,  in  the  period  of  Louis  XIII,  appeared  at  the  open- 
ing of  a  high  wall  which  we  had  been  following.  As  we 
passed  beneath  it,  I  could  not  refrain  from  remarking 
that  it  bore  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  old  Temple  Bar 
of  London.  It  was  Temple  Bar  in  pink  and  white. 
Temple  Bar  looking  newer  and  brighter  than  the  original. 
As  we  emerged  from  beneath  it,  the  children  of  the  gate- 
keeper presented  themselves  for  a  salutation,  and  there 
being  no  one  else  to  ask,  the  Comte  accosted  them. 

"Is  Monsieur  le  Marquis  at  home?" 

"Non,  messieurs!"  answered  the  whole  flock  at  once. 
"He  will  not  return  for  a  month.  But  there  is  no  one  at 
the  chateau,  and  the  messieurs  may  see  everything,  if 
they  care  to." 

"Ah,  as  I  thought,"  said  the  Comte,  not  heeding  the 
children's  last  remark.     "Monsieur  de  V is  generally 


COUR    CHKVKRNY 

here  in  the  autumn  and  winter  only,  when,  however,  he 
is  always  surruuiulcil  by  plenty  of  company,  for  his  fam- 
ily alone  numbers  twenty." 

As  he  spoke  we  emerged  from  a  large  group  of 
trees  and  shrubs  and  reached  the  open  space  before  the 
chateau.  A  long,  symmetrical  building  stood  before  us, 
built  of  the  most  brilliant  white  stone,  whose  yellowish 
tint  reminded  one  of  milk  that  has  been  left  over  night 
for  the  cream  to  form  upon  it.  The  unbroken  fa(,-ade 
stretched  away  for  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  and  as  we 
stood  at  one  end  of  it,  the  whole  chateau  seemed  a  long, 
narrow  elevation.  On  the  other  side,  the  effect  had  been 
somewhat  changed  by  two  wings,  projecting  into  a  moat. 
This  moat  had  been  filled  with  i\'j',  greens  and  flowers,  that 
almost  covered  its  stone  sides,  and  grew  about  the  arches  of 
an  old  bridge,  leading  from  the  rear  of  the  chateau.  The 
stone  used  here  is  different  from  that  in  front,  and  the 
effect  is  softer,  being  of  a  grayish  hue.  As  we  retraced 
our  steps,  and  came  back  to  the  first  facade,  the  contrast 
made  the  brilliant  coloring  of  its  stone  even  more  notice- 
able. The  facings  here  were  such  as  to  produce  the 
appearance  of  clapboards  of  wood,  instead  of  stone,  and 
as  might  be  supposed,  this  effect  lessened  the  beauty  of 
the  architecture,  which  was  that  of  the  famous  Philibert 
Delorme. 

As  in  so  many  of  the  greater  French  chateaux,  so  in 
Chevemy  we  miss  instinctively  that  natural  and  softer 
finish,  always  such  a  feature  in  the  English  country 
house.  The  iNy,  that  is  there  allowed  to  climb  over  the 
walls  and  to  soften  a  fa<,'ade  perhaps  otherwise  too  harsh, 
is  absent  here.  No  shrubs  or  growth  of  any  kind  are 
allowed  to  break  the  formal  symmetry  of  the  facade. 
The  grass  and  lawns  even  are  at  a  distance,  and  the  only 
relief  from  the  glare  of  the  unsympathetic  gravel,  cover- 
ing the  open  space  before  the  chateau,  is  a  row  of  orange 
trees.  And  even  these  seem  stunted  in  their  growth,  as 
41 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  T 


i .  V 


if  their  owners  were  almost  unwilling  that  they  should  be 
there. 

We  stood  a  moment  looking  at  the  rather  hard  lines  of 
the  architecture  before  us.  I  was  receiving  my  first 
impression  of  an  historical  French  chateau,  and — I  was  a 
little  disappointed.  There  was,  however,  much  that  was 
beautiful  in  the  facade.  A  row  of  busts,  set  into  niches, 
above  the  first-storj'  windows,  contained  some  good  carv- 
ing. The  proportions  were  fair  and  noble  even,  with  the 
exception  of  the  doorway,  which  was  too  small.  And  yet 
one  recoiled  from  it  all.  It  lacked  the  artistic  flavor 
which  I  had  anticipated,  and  I  was  glad  when  my  com- 
panion began  to  tell  me  of  the  history  of  the  chateau,  for 
it  turned  my  thoughts  from  the  criticism  of  the  building 
itself. 

"Cheverny  was  built  in  the  seventeenth  centur}-  by 
Hurault,  Comte  de  Cheverny,"  the  Comte  began.  "He 
was  the  chancellor  of  Louis  XIIL  His  wife,  Anne  de 
Thou,  had  much  to  do  with  the  constniction  of  the 
chateau.  When  we  enter  it  we  shall  see  her  picture 
beside  that  of  her  husband  in  the  great  salon.  The  last 
Comte  who  inhabited  Cheverny  wrote  an  interesting 
account  of  its  history.  I  will  get  it  some  time,  if  you 
would  be  interested  in  it.  In  the  revolution  of  1793  the 
chateau  passed  out  of  the  family,  and  it  came  into  its  pos- 
session again  only  through  the  present  Marquis,  to  whom 
it  was  given  some  j'ears  ago  by  a  lady. ' ' 

As  the  Comte  was  speaking,  we  ascended  a  short  flight 
of  steps  and  entered  the  vestibule  within.  A  massive 
staircase  of  white  stone  rose  before  us,  and  turned  upon 
itself.  Its  vaulted  roof,  its  heavy  balustrade  and  its 
panels,  beautifully  carved,  gave  it  the  appearance  of 
marble.  Some  of  the  details,  carved  in  exquisite  rich- 
ness, reminded  one  of  the  art  of  Gibbons  in  the  choir  of 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral  in  London;  and  the  whole  work  was 
of  surpassing  beauty.     We  mounted  it,   and  reached  a 

42 


COUR    LHKVKRNY 


gallery  above,  which  led  to  the  g^uard  chamber,  the  i)rin- 
cipal  room  of  the  chateau  and  one  which  was  worthy  of  a 
royal  residence.  From  this  beautiful  room,  which  it 
would  take  too  long  to  describe  in  detail,  we  passed  into 
the  "King's  room,"  built  for  Henry  IV  of  France.  It 
was  filled  with  Flemish  tapestries  of  a  high  order,  the  bed 
being  draped  also  with  them.  Perhaps  the  most  inter- 
esting thing  in  this  room  is  the  King's  trunk,  a  massive 
chest  studded  with  nails,  which  stands  in  one  of  the  deep 
recesses  of  the  windows. 

The  gallery  and  dining-room  beneath  these  apartments 
are  wonderfully  rich  in  ornament,  the  furniture  being 
carved  in  the  most  elaborate  manner.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  vestibule  is  a  boudoir,  hung  with  a  series  of 
pastelles  in  oval  frames.  They  looked  as  if  they  might 
have  been  by  Greuze,  so  delicate  was  their  coloring 
and  so  soft  their  effect.  On  the  top  of  a  high  cabinet 
rested  the  helmet  and  cuirasse  of  Henrj'  V,  Comte 
de  Chambord,  when  a  child.  The  miniature  bits  of 
armor,  beautifully  fashioned  and  perfect  in  every  de- 
tail, spoke  eloquently  of  their  dead  master.  We  left 
this  boudoir  somewhat  subdued  and  impressed.  It 
seemed  almost  an  inner  atrium,  a  sacred  spot,  where 
that  which  was  most  personal  to  the  chateau  had  been 
collected. 

Passing  through  a  billiard  room,  where  the  most  no- 
ticeable object  was  a  collection  of  minerals  gathered 
together  by  the  father  of  the  present  owner,  we  came  to 
the  grand  salon.  This  room,  like  most  of  the  interior  of 
the  chateau,  is  entirely  decorated  in  the  elaborate  style 
of  the  Renaissance.  The  beams  of  the  ceiling  are  left 
unplastered,  and  like  portions  of  the  Chateau  of  Blois, 
are  painted  in  an  intricate  detail.  The  walls  are  deco- 
rated in  a  similar  manner,  and  a  beautiful  collection  of 
pictures  has  been  let  into  the  panels.  Nothing  can 
e.Kceed  the  startling  effect  which  this  form  of  decoration 

43 


**• .  Y 


T .  i 


t.t 


T .  r 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

produces  upon  the  observer  to  whom  it  is  new.     It  seems 

almost  fantastic,  so  unaccustomed  to  it  are  we.  But  after 
a  comparison  of  the  variety  of  its  details  with  the  decora- 
tions of  the  rest  of  the  chateau,  we  are  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  portion  of  it  is  almost  simple.  The  more 
temperate  shades  which  have  here  been  employed,  lose 
somewhat  in  their  startling  effect  when  contrasted  with 
the  brilliancy  of  reds  and  yellows,  and  at  length  we  are 
induced  almost  to  accept  this  strange  melange  of  orna- 
ment as  beautiful.  A  large  and  very  artistic  looking 
portrait  caught  my  eye. 

"That  is  Philipe  de  Vibraye,"  explained  the  Comte, 
who  had  not  spoken  for  some  time.  "Here  is  his  wife;  a 
fine  picture,  is  it  not?  That  picture  beyond,  of  Mile, 
de  Saumery,  is  by  Mignard.  And  here  we  have  Mile,  de 
Montpensier,  Louise,  'la  grandc  Mademoiselle,'  the 
cousin  of  Louis  XIII.  There  are  Hurault  de  Vibrage 
and  his  wife,  Anne  de  Thou.  You  remember  I  spoke  of 
these  pictures  before  we  came  in." 

We  paused  a  moment  in  front  of  the  portraits  of  these 
two  personages  who  had  built  Cheverny,  and  then  passed 
on  to  a  beautiful  Van  Dyke,  a  portrait  of  the  Comte  de 
Midicis.  This,  with  a  beautiful  picture  of  Anne  of 
Austria,  and  a  copy  of  Raphael,  concluded  the  collection. 
Before  leaving  this  room,  however,  in  which  were  gath- 
ered together  so  many  works  of  art  and  so  much  that 
was  beautiful,  we  looked  for  a  few  moments  at  the 
view  out  of  the  back  windows.  It  was  worth  looking 
at  and  remembering.  Directly  opposite,  and  at  the 
further  end  of  a  great  lawn,  surrounded  by  shrubs  and 
flowers,  stood  a  beautiful  little  building,  one  story  in 
height.  The  brilliant  whiteness  of  its  stone  set  off  the 
details  of  a  pure  bit  of  Louis  XV  architecture,  and  its 
slate  roof  rose  so  high  above  the  round  windows  of  the 
upi)er  portion  of  the  wall,  that  in  any  other  country  than 
France  it  would  have  seemed  out  of  proportion. 


COUR    CHKVKRNY 

"That  was  used  as  an  'ambulance'  in  the  war  of  1870," 
my  companion  explained,  as  wc  once  more  emcrjjcd 
from  the  chateau.  "The  great  lawn  in  front,  endinjj  in 
one  of  those  lonj,^  vistas,  only  to  be  found  in  French  parks, 
was  originally  laid  out  in  'jardins  ii  la  franc^aise,"  but  it 
is  now  allowed  to  produce,  in  undisturbed  tranquillity,  an 
indifferent  crop  of  grass. " 

Walks  and  avenues  on  our  right  led  into  bowers  of 
imknown  depth  and  beauty,  and  clumps  of  trees,  which 
looked  like  the  opening  of  a  forest,  overhung  the  path. 
We  had  no  time  to  test  their  true  extent,  however,  for  the 
afternoon  had  worn  away  before  we  knew  it,  and  our 
\'isit  was  coming  to  an  end  all  too  soon.  As  we  wound 
our  way  homeward,  through  a  garden  (enclosing  within 
its  high,  old-fashioned  walls,  flowers  and  fruit  and  all 
that  goes  to  make  a  garden  alluring  to  the  heart),  and 
through  the  stable  courts,  showing  here  and  there  a  bit  of 
ancient  car\-ing,  high  against  a  tower,  I  looked  back 
upon  my  first  experience  of  an  historical  chateau,  with 
mingled  feelings  of  pleasure  and  of  disappointment. 
Like  all  things  which  we  picture  to  our  minds,  it  had 
been  different  from  what  I  had  expected.  But  like  some 
others  also,  it  had  proved  more  beautiful  in  many  ways 
than  I  could  have  imagined.  The  first  of  this  group  of 
chateaux,  which  we  had  so  wished  to  see,  the  first  of  that 
wonderful  galaxy  of  architectural  beauty,  the  first  of 
that  historic  group  of  royal  and  noble  residences,  which 
are  famous  the  world  over  as  the  Chateaux  of  the  Loire, 
had  passed  before  us  and  was  left  behind.  Even  now  it 
had  faded  away  into  the  shades  of  the  night. 


45 


T .  i 


i .  Y 


CHAPTER   III 


r ,  i 


r ,  i 


CHAMBORD 

Early  in  the  soft  summer  morning  of  the  following  day 
we  left  our  picturesque  auberge  in  the  town  of  Cour 
Cheverny.  We  were  soon  upon  a  road  that  winds  up 
hill  and  down  dale  through  vineyards  and  forests  by  the 
town  of  Bracieux,  and  through  the  forest  of  Russy  until 
it  reaches  the  Chateau  of  Chambord. 

As  we  said  good-bye  to  our  hostess  at  the  door  of  the 
auberge  where  we  had  passed  the  night,  the  Comte 
uttered  the  last  of  his  many  recommendations  to  her  in 
regard  to  our  luggage.  He  was,  indeed,  in  a  great  state  of 
excitement,  lest  it  should  go  wrong.  And  having  already 
given  the  gargon  full  directions  in  regard  to  it,  and 
repeated  them  all  to  the  femme  de  chambre  of  the 
humble  establishment,  he  now  proceeded  to  impress  them 
upon  its  mistress. 

"Then  you  will  not  fail  to  send  our  bags  by  the  first 
carriage  that  goes  to  Chambord,  so  that  they  may  arrive 
this  evening!" 

"Oh,  soyez  tranquille,  monsieur;  soyez  tranquille," 
was  the  only  answer,  and  we  started  at  last,  though  the 
Comte  was  not  "tranquille"  at  all. 

"Oh,  my  bags,  my  bags;  how  I  fear  for  my  bags!"  said 
he  to  himself,  when  we  were  already  at  some  distance  on 
the  high-road. 

"You  seem  very  anxious  over  the  bags,"  said  I,  with 
some  composure.     "The  absorbing  subject  of  luggage,  as 
well  as  the  worry  about  it,  seems  to  occupy  a  very  great 
46 
t 


T .  T 


y .  i 


C  H  A  M  H  O  R  D 


place  in  French  minds.  In  our  country  we  check  our 
lujjU-'K^'.  ^^'■^  ^o  n*^'  bother  ourselves  about  it  until  it 
reaches  its  destination.      It  is  very  simple." 

"Have  you  not  been  in  France  lonjj'  enough  to  learn 
that  nothing  is  simple  here?"  replied  my  companion. 
"All  is  more  or  less  complicated,  and  nothing  more  so 
tli.m  explanations.  We  have  always  to  start  from  the 
iKginning,  to  stop  and  consider  each  point,  then  to 
repeat  it  all  over  once  so  as  to  impress  it  upon  the  mind. 
Then  it  has  to  be  repeated  a  second  time,  to  keep  it 
impressed,  and  still  a  third  time  for  the  impression  to 
sink  deeply  into  the  intelligence  and  to  have  its  desired 
effect.  Do  you  suppose,  for  instance,  if  I  had  said  to  our 
landlady  this  morning,  'Ma  brave  femme,  you  must  send 
our  luggage  to  Chambord, '  do  you  suppose  there  would 
have  been  the  least  chance  of  its  getting  there?  Cer- 
tainly not.  I  was  obliged  first,  to  tell  her  the  number  of 
pieces,  then  where  she  could  find  them  in  the  room 
(without  looking  for  them),  then  the  simplest  means  of 
getting  them  to  Chambord,  which  I  found  was  by  the 
'diligence'  to  Bracieux  and  by  a  private  cart  from  there. 
Then  I  was  forced  to  extract,  with  some  difficulty,  the 
price,  and  finally  to  state  that  I  would  pay  exactly  one 
half  of  what  was  asked  and  that  only  when  the  luggage 
was  delivered.  All  this  had  to  be  repeated,  over  and 
over  again,  at  least  three  times.  So  you  see,"  the 
Comte  concluded  triumphantly,  "luggage  is  not  such  a 
simple  matter,  after  all." 

I  could  not  repress  a  smile,  as  I  asked:  "And  are  you 
satisfied,  even  now,  of  the  safety  of  our  bags?  ' 

"Certainly  not,"  was  the  decided  answer,  "nor  shall  I 
be,  until  I  see  them,  safe  and  sound,  this  evening." 

By  this  time  we  had  walked  .some   distance,  and  our 

road  was  now  crossing  a  plateau  covered  with  vineyards 

and  with,  here  and  there,  the  trees  of  a  park,  broken  by 

the   pointed  roofs  of  some  smill  chateau.      Two   young 

i: 


i .  T 


T .  T 


V .  T 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN     TOURAINE 


girls  appeared  upon  the  road,  with  flannel  dresses  and 
with  white  sailor  hats. 

"Evidently  English  girls,"  I  remarked  to  my  com- 
panion. 

"And  why  not  French?"  asked  the  Comte.  "Do  you 
suppose,"  he  added,  "that  in  our  damp  climate  of 
Touraine  there  are  no  French  girls  with  golden  hair  and 
large  blue  eyes  and  fair  complexions?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  I,  "that  I  have  too  often  associated 
French  golden  hair  with  some  form  of  preparation,  and 
French  complexion  with  a  good  deal  of  making-up. " 

"At  this  rate  you  leave  very  little  that  is  genuine  to 
our  fair  sex,"  the  Comte  replied.  "But  I  wish  that  you 
would  place  aside  your  old  associations,  with  any  Puritan 
prejudices  which  may  have  found  their  way  in  among 
them,  and  consider  these  two  young  girls,  as  examples 
that  are  easy  to  find  here. " 

They  were  French,  after  all;  I  was  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge it,  for  their  speech,  their  manners,  and  even  their 
eyes,  were  peculiarly  Latin,  as  they  passed  us  by. 
They  were  dressed  identically  alike,  and  a  strong  resem- 
blance told  us  that  they  were  undoubtedly  sisters.  The 
younger  of  the  two  was  teaching  the  elder  to  ride  upon  a 
bicycle.  The  Comte  did  not  approve  of  this  exercise,  I 
think,  nor  did  he  find  it  entirely  fitting  for  these  two 
young  girls  to  be  alone  upon  the  high-road  to  Bracieux. 
But  the  roofs  of  a  pretty  chateau,  half  hidden  by  large 
chestnut  trees,  appeared  near  by  and  seemed,  to  the 
Comte  at  all  events,  to  be  a  sort  of  silent  sponsor  for  these 
unattended  young  ladies.  He  looked  ahead  in  the  most 
dignified  manner;  but  I  must  confess  I  allowed  a  stray 
glance  to  wander  back  to  those  golden  locks,  and  I  had 
some  little  difficulty  in  recalling  it  again. 

"Don't,  don't,"  said  the  Comte.  "We  shall  be  taken 
for  tourists  of  the  worst  sort."  But  the  temptation  was 
so  great  that,  in  spite  of  my  friend's  disapproving  remark. 


I  looked  apain — ami  they  looked  and  "our  eyes  kissed," 
as  a  Frenchman  would  say. 

This  meeting  with  the  two  young  ladies  riding  their 
bicycles  upon  the  high-road  did  not  seem  to  put  the 
Comte  in  as  pleasant  a  mood  as  it  did  me.  Poor  Comte, 
ever  so  afraid  that  his  foreign  companion  might  not 
receive  the  most  favorable  impression  of  France  and  of 
the  French  people! 

Before  long,  we  passed  a  little  village  of  no  importance 
but  very  pretty — Tour-en-Sologne.  Beyond  this,  the 
valley  of  the  river  Beuvron  runs,  for  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  kilometres,  through  the  country  of  Sologne. 
We  crossed  the  road  from  Blois  to  Bracieux  at  right 
angles,  and  stopped  for  a  few  moments  to  rest  at  a  little 
auberge,  over  whose  doorway  there  hung  a  sign  bearing  the 
familiar  inscription,  "Loge  i  pied  et  h  cheval."  A  small 
wooden  table  and  two  straw-covered  chairs  were  placed 
at  our  disposal,  in  front  of  this  diminutive  public-house, 
and  before  many  moments  we  were  contentedly  sipping 
our  proverbial  curacoa  and  water.  A  young  woman  was 
washing  and  scrubbing  the  small  panes  of  glass  in  the 
windows,  for  it  was  Saturday — a  washing  day  the  world 
over.  We  endeavored  to  draw  her  into  conversation,  but 
for  all  our  efforts  we  could  but  extract  the  rather  laconic 
answers  of  "yes"  and  "no." 

"So  this  is  the  road  to  Bracieux?"  we  enquired. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  woman. 

"Is  it  a  pleasant  bourg?" 

"I  don't  know.     I've  never  been  there." 

"And  the  little  chateau  on  our  right — to  whom  does  it 
belong?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  " 

"What  is  the  name  of  it?"  put  in  the  Comte. 

"I  don't  know.     I've  never  been  there." 

"Probably  you  have  just  arrived  in   this  part  of  the 
country?"  suggested  the  Comte,  in  some  amusement. 
40 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

"No;  I  was  born  here,"  replied  the  girl,  somewhat  to 
our  astonishment. 

"And  how  is  your  business?" 

"Oh!  Qa  ne  va  point  du  tout!"  with  a  shrug  of  her 
calico-covered  shoulders. 

It  was  useless  to  try  longer,  so  the  Comte  and  I 
contented  ourselves  with  a  second  glass  of  curacoa. 

Carts  and  wagons  on  high  wheels  and  innocent  of 
springs  were  passing  by  continually,  toward  the  village  of 
Bracieux.  Some  of  these  were  covered  with  green  can- 
vas tops,  or  "baches,"  as  they  are  called  in  Sologne. 
Others  were  open,  and  all  were  filled  with  peasants  and 
women  in  white  caps;  as  a  rule  six  or  eight  of  them 
crowded  into  each  cart.  A  very  fat  woman — people  are 
more  often  fat  than  thin,  we  discovered,  in  this  part  of 
France — a  large,  fat  woman  stopped  in  front  of  the 
auberge.  A  basket  himg  from  her  arm,  and  as  she 
opened  it,  we  saw  that  it  was  filled  with  straw  and  that  in 
the  midst  of  it  there  lay  some  eggs. 

"Vous  faut-il  point  des  oeufs  aujourd'hui,  messieurs?" 
said  this  corpulent  peasant  with  an  engaging  smile. 

"Merci,  la  maitresse,"  answered  the  woman  for  us,  still 
scrubbing  the  windows. 

"lis  sont  pourtant  point  cher;  dix-huit  sous  la 
douzaine,"  urged  the  peasant  in  a  seductive  tone. 

This  price  must  have  been  very  tempting  to  the 
woman,  for  she  stopped  rubbing  the  glass,  came  down 
from  her  chair  and  took  from  the  basket  an  egg,  which 
she  proceeded  to  shake  with  all  her  might. 

"Sont  ils  bien  frais?"  she  enquired. 
"Oui,  oui,  pondus  aujourd'hui,"  answered  the  peasant. 
"Very  well,  give  me  two  dozen." 

The  two  women  sat  down  and  counted  out  the  eggs, 

first  one  and  then  the  other,  and  then  all  over  again. 

The  woman  of    the  auberge   got  one  egg  pardessus  le 

march6,  and  they  continued  to  chatter  along  at  a  great 

SO 


CHAMBORD 

rate,  and  we  left  them  still  chattering,  while  the  carts 
were  still  passing  toward  Bracieux  in  an  unbroken  stream. 

"Bracieux,  Bracieux?  The  name  sounds  familiar  to 
me,  "  said  I,  as  we  started  once  more. 

"Of  course  it  does,"  said  the  Comte.  "Who  does  not 
know  Dumas"  "Trois  Mousquetaires"?  and  that  le  sire  de 
Bracieux  plays  a  conspicuous  part  in  that  famous  history. 
The  village  yonder,  with  its  white  steeple,  half  hidden 
behind  the  silver  leaves  of  the  willows,  bears  the  same 
name  though  hardly  the  same  fame.  It  is  very  well 
known  for  its  market,  however,  which  brings  many 
people  to  the  place  every  week.  It  is  one  of  the  best  in 
Sologne,  and  indeed  Bracieux  is  better  known  for  its 
butcher  (who  is  no  mean  celebrity)  than  it  is  for  itself. 
His  meat  is  greatly  sought  after  by  all  the  neighboring 
chateaux,  and  their  owners  come  to  Bracieux  once  a  week 
for  supplies.  I  might  even  tell  you — although  you  have 
neglected  to  ask  me — that  this  butcher  sells  his  meat,  at 
present,  for  eighteen  cents  a  pound.  I  say  at  present, 
because  the  price  of  meat  is  one  of  the  most  conservative 
things  that  there  are  in  France.  It  hardly  ever  changes 
more  than  a  sou  or  two,  in  a  lifetime." 

"You  seem  to  be  a  perfect  rural  encyclopedia,  my  dear 
friend."  I  replied,  amused.  "One  may  go  to  you,  and 
not  in  vain,  even  for  the  price  of  meat.  Really  this  is 
most  instructive." 

"Well,  well,  all  things  have  their  importance,  and  if 
you  had  ever  directed  a  chateau  in  France  you  would 
have  learned  how  useful  it  is  to  know  all  these  little 
details.  If  one  entertains  a  large  number  of  people,  not 
only  the  guests  but  the  servants,  who  in  any  house 
amount  to  fourteen  or  fifteen,  have  to  be  looked  after  and 
fed.  And,  pray,  who  is  to  see  to  all  this,  if  not  the 
master?"  And  here  the  Comte  gave  a  frantic  wave  of 
his  hand  in  the  air,  as  if  to  emphasize  more  distinctly  his 
remark.     "Nothing  in  France,"  he  continued,  "makes  us 

5' 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T ,  Y 


r .  Y 


r.'s 


Y .  Y 


so  perfectly  wretched  as  what  we  call  'coulage. '  We 
know  that  there  must  be  a  reasonable  amount  of  stealing 
and  cheating;  but  we  wish  to  have  as  little  as  possible. 
The  'butchers  and  bakers'  come  to  the  chateau  but  once 
or  twice  a  week,  so  you  may  imagine  how  much  there  is 
to  think  of  for  that  unfortunate  person  who  has  to 
arrange  for  the  welfare  of  its  inmates  during  the  inter- 
vening days. 

"In  America,  you  see,"  the  Comte  continued  (gestic- 
ulating violently  with  every  available  portion  of  his  body), 
"in  America,  the  longer  you  live,  the  less  you  seem  to 
need  your  servants,  and  I  may  add,  the  more  useless  your 
servants  seem  to  become.  Machinery  and  other  inven- 
tions take  their  place.  But  old-world  people  have  still 
retained  the  old  traditions  and  the  old  ways  of  doing 
things.  Therefore  we  need  a  large  number  of  people 
about  us.  In  fact,  my  dear  friend,  we  really  could  not 
do  without  them."  This  last  bit  of  information  the 
Comte  imparted  in  a  confidential  whisper,  as  if  the 
whole  world  were  listening  and  he  were  telling  me  a 
state  secret.     And  so  the  conversation  ended. 

We  soon  plunged  into  the  valley,  and  crossed  the  river 
Beuvron  over  an  old  stone  bridge,  whose  three  pictur- 
esque arches  were  in  a  somewhat  ruined  condition. 

"What  a  sad-looking  stream!"  remarked  my  compan- 
ion. "It  seems  as  if  it  had  been  draining  up  some  of  the 
sadness  from  the  country  around  it.  It  is  like  a  stream 
of  jet-black  ink,  winding  its  way  amid  the  weeping  reeds 
which  half  conceal  it.  The  whole  valley  is  like  a  great 
swamp,  over  which  Nature  has  spread  a  green  carpet, 
spotted  here  and  there  with  pink  and  yellow.  I  think  it 
must  hide,  among  its  folds,  some  treacherous  pits  or 
holes.  It  seems  odd  to  think  that  forty  years  ago  this 
portion  of  the  country,  lying  close  to  Touraine,  which  is 
the  'garden  of  France'  and  known  as  Sologne,  was  all  as 
unhealthy  and  desolate  as  this  particular  place.     There 

i 


•  9 

i .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


V .  Y 


C  H  A  M  B  O  R  D 


was  nothing  to  be  seen,  for  miles  and  miles,  but  swamps  or 
woods.  The  water  was  stajjnant;  trees  were  few  and 
scattered.  Houses  and  small  fanns  were  to  be  seen 
here  and  there;  but  their  owners  were  attacked  by 
fever.  There  were  but  few  roads,  and  those  were  poorly 
kept. 

"In  later  years,  however,  with  proper  drainage  and 
cultivation,  all  Solojjne  has  become  healthy  and  habit- 
able. Some  parts  of  it  are  now  so  fertile,  that  they  yield 
as  good  and  as  abundant  crops  as  any  portion  of  France. 
The  trees,  which  would  not  grow  before,  on  account  of  the 
dampness,  are  now  able  to  live,  and  even  flourish.  And 
indeed  the  forests  have  become  so  beautiful  and  so  full 
of  game,  that  Sologne  is  now  known  as  'le  Paradis  des 
Chasseurs."  But  at  the  same  time  an  air  of  mystery 
hangs  over  it  all,  such  as  woods  and  water  may  alone 
bestow,  and  this  is  perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  attractions 
of  the  country.  In  spite  of  its  many  advances,  civiliza- 
tion seems  still  to  linger  upon  the  threshold  of  Sologne; 
and  that  false  knowledge  which  civilization  often  brings 
with  it  as  an  offspring  of  its  advantages,  has  not  yet 
spoilt  the  peasants  of  this  region.  One  feels  that  among 
them  there  is  still  a  field  for  good  work,  and  this  feeling 
in  itself  produces  one  of  peace  and  happiness  to  those 
who  live  among  them.  Each  year,  of  course,  this  very 
sentiment  diminishes;  but  nevertheless,  one  enjoys  it 
while  it  yet  lasts." 

'Could  you  not  make  it  last  forever,  or  at  least  for 
some  time  longer,  by  fighting  against  this  invasion  of 
civilization?"  I  enquired. 

"Oh,  no.  I  fear  that  nothing  of  the  kind  would  be  of 
any  use.  There  is  no  human  power  which  could  stop  it. 
It  must  be,  and  I  suppose  that  one  day  we  shall  see  its 
advantages.  For  the  present,  it  brings  no  good  whatever, 
nothing  but  rebellion  against  that  which  has  always  been 
and  which  is  only  replaced,  in  these  days,  by  something 

5.^ 


i .  f 


T ,  i 


f .  ( 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


undesirable.  Periods  of  social  transition,  my  friend," 
the  Comte  continued,  shaking  his  head,  "beware  of  them; 
beware  of  them.  The  reaction  will  come  one  day, 
however;  and  may  it  be  a  sound  one  when  it  does." 

"I  fear  that  Providence  alone  will  have  to  create  this 
reaction,  for  you  do  not  seem  to  help  her  much  in  the 
matter,"  I  ventured  to  remark. 

"Well,  yes,  perhaps,  perhaps.  But  let  us  drop  the 
subject.  I  suppose  we  must  endure  those  things  which 
we  cannot  avoid. ' ' 

"And  that  through  your  own  fault,  you  old  fogy 
conservatives,"  I  added,  with  a  smile. 

"Ah,  I  know  it.  But,  mj'  friend,  I  cannot  fight  alone, 
so  let  us  drop  the  subject,  as  I  already  suggested,  and 
live  for  a  while  in  this  crumbling  past  which  has  for  us 
conservatives  such  a  saddened  fascination.  What  could 
give  us  a  better  opportunity  than  Chambord?  Remains 
of  great  things  and  great  men,  both  have  their  fascina- 
tion. Remains  of  rank,  royalty,  and  riches  must  and  do 
have  this,  more  than  anything  else,  indescribably  more 
than  those  things  which  claim  to  interest  us  without 
them. ' ' 

We  pursued  our  way  for  some  time  in  deep  silence.  A 
little  in  front  of  us,  and  close  to  the  stream,  there  appeared 
in  sight  a  pretty  "gentilhommiere,"  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, whose  high-pointed  roofs  were  just  visible  through 
the  poplar  trees  which  mounted  guard  upon  the  banks. 
Its  name  was  Villesavin.  The  yellow  walls,  pierced  here 
and  there  by  ornamented  windows,  showed  in  a  mild 
relief  against  the  green  about  them. 

"Let  us  stop  and  ask  if  we  may  visit  this  place,"  said 
the  Comte.  "It  makes  me  think  of  some  nest  con- 
taining birds,  built  upon  a  reed  bending  over  the  river. 
It  should  be  half  concealed,  like  this,  by  wide,  pointed 
leaves  and  should  show  only  when  the  wind  moved  them 
aside.     The  bird  is  called  Loriot,  I  believe.   His  plumage 


m^m 


C  H  A  M  U  O  R  D 

is  beautiful  and  bripht.     Do  let  us  take  one  look  at  the 
bird  that  inhabits  this  nest." 

"Yuu  might  liken  it  to  a  cage  as  well  as  to  a  nest,"  I 
answered,  "for  see  how  small  is  the  park  which  surrounds 
it." 

"Yes,  that  is  tnie;  but  cage  or  nest,  let  us  try  and  get 
into  it."  And  we  walked  along,  beside  the  gray  walls  of 
the  inclosure,  until  we  came  to  a  modem  gateway,  placed 
between  two  round  towers  that  seemed,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  be  fairly  overwhelmed  with  age.  We  pulled  at 
the  iron  bell-rope,  and  an  answer  came  back  to  us,  in  the 
deep,  bass  note  of  the  bell.  Soon  after,  the  key  turned  in 
the  door  and  an  old  woman,  who  looked  as  if  she  might 
be  an  elder  sister  to  the  two  towers,  poked  out  her  head 
just  far  enough  for  us  to  see  a  pointed  nose  and  a 
still  more  pointed  chin.  She  looked  not  unlike  the 
wicked  fair)-,  who  used  always  to  be  present  at  the 
christening  of  bygone  princesses,  and  to  throw  upon 
thera  her  enchantment. 

"May  we  visit  the  park  and  the  chateau?"  enquired  the 
Comte. 

"I  will  go  and  see,"  muttered  the  old  woman,  between 
her  toothless  jaws,  and  so  saying,  she  closed  the  postern 
once  more  upon  us,  and  we  could  see  only  the  tops  of  the 
trees  sweeping  over  the  high  walls.  They  were  so  thick 
that  their  branches  seemed  to  intermingle,  as  if  centuries 
had  passed  since  they  were  first  planted,  and  as  if  all  had 
fallen  asleep  since  then  and  still  slept,  thus  leaving  the 
trees  to  grow  unmolested  and  in  all  directions.  They 
were  so  thick  that  their  branches,  covered  with  ever- 
greens and  ix-y,  seemed  almost  impenetrable.  We  waited 
outside  for  some  time,  sitting  upon  a  large  stone.  The 
footsteps  of  the  old  fair)-  sounded,  in  a  strange  staccato, 
upon  the  graveled  path.  Soon  they  grew  indistinct. 
A  murmur  of  voices,  brought  by  a  gust  of  wind,  came 
toward  us,  and  died  away ;  all  was  silent  again. 
55 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

"How  strangely  unreal,  how  sad,  and  yet  how  allur- 
ing is  this  place!"  said  the  Comte.  "I  feel  as  if  we  were 
upon  the  threshold  of  some  haunted  or  secret  palace 
which  we  were  about  to  enter,  and  from  which  we  were 
never  to  return.  They  are  discussing  whether  or  not 
we  are  worthy  to  be  received  into  these  sacred  precincts; 
and  we  are  awaiting  their  decision  with  beating  hearts. 

"They  take  certainly  time  enough  to  make  up  their 
minds,"  said  I. 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  chance,  a  last  chance,  which  Heaven 
gives  us,  to  escape  from  that  fate  which  overhangs 
all  who  go  therein.  Let  us  wait  no  longer.  I  am 
afraid;  yes,  I  feel  afraid  to  cross  the  threshold  of 
this  crumbling  door.  Let  us  hasten  away  from  this 
haunted  place,  and  as  we  flee,  let  us  not  cast  our  eyes 
behind  us,  lest  they  meet  those  of  the  old  fairy  who 
seems  to  have  already  thrown  a  strange  and  mysterious 
charm  over  me  and  over  my  thoughts.  For  pity's  sake,  I 
entreat  you  to  leave.  The  gray  towers,  the  trees,  the 
walls  with  their  clusters  of  leaves  so  dark  that  they  seem 
almost  black,  how  they  all  stare  at  us,  as  if  somehow  we 
were  a  prey  to  them.  But  hark!  There  are  the  steps 
upon  the  gravel.  They  grow  more  distinct.  They  are 
louder.  It  is  too  late  to  run — too  late. "  And  the  postern 
opened,  only  ajar,  showing  a  deep  wall  of  green  and  a 
path  winding  its  way  through  it  and  lost  in  a  further 
one,  greener,  deeper,  thicker  yet.  The  pointed  nose  and 
the  still  more  pointed  chin  of  the  wicked  fairy  made  their 
way  through  a  crack  of  the  door,  and  at  last,  a  husky, 
hollow  voice  cried,  in  a  dissonant  key: 

"Young  men,  this  is  an  abode  of  love.  Behind  these 
bowers  and  walls  of  stone,  a  god,  my  master,  conceals 
the  goddess  of  his  dreams.  Woe  to  that  man  who  shall 
lose  himself  in  this  veil  of  mystery;  and  woe  to  him 
who,  wandering  through  these  paths,  shall  cross  the 
winged  god.  His  arrow,  poisoned,  never  misses  its 
S6 


C  H  A  M  B  O  R  1) 

mark.  Go,  younp  men,  and  retrace  your  steps.  Beware, 
lest  you  ring  this  bell  again,  for  Love  might  escape  from 
the  door,  ajar,  and  the  master  would  jiursue  you.  Woe, 
woe  to  you,  if  you  should  cross  his  path!"  And  the 
door  banged  to,  so  hard  that  the  towers  of  stone  seemed 
to  shake,  and  the  trees  seemed  to  whisper  "beware!" 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,  if  this  is  what  you  called  French 
hospitality,  many  thanks  for  it." 

"Do  not  joke  about  such  serious  matters,"  returned 
the  Comte,  in  the  most  concerned  manner.  "This 
woman  will  bring  to  us  some  ill  luck ;  I  feel  sure  of  it. 
Why  did  we  stop?  Why  did  we  ever  ring  this  cursed 
bell?" 

"So  you  believe  in  the  evil  ej-e,  then?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  no.  But  there  is,  however,  in  all  of  those  who 
belong  to  the  Latin  races,  a  latent  germ  of  superstition 
which  cannot  be  killed,  and  against  which  we  fight  in 
vain.  Therefore,  let  us  drop  a  heavy  curtain  over 
Villcsavin  and  its  impressions;  let  us  blot  it  out  from 
our  lives  and  never  mention  it  or  think  of  it  again." 

"Very  well,"  said  I,  and  turning  toward  the  object  of 
our  aversion  I  added:  "Farewell,  wicked  fair}';  good-bye 
forever,  and  welcome  the  beautiful  forest  of  Russy!" 

"Here  we  are,  at  the  very  entrance  of  the  forest," 
broke  in  my  friend,  "on  the  avenue  called  'I'all^e  du 
Roi.'  It  is  so  long  and  straight,  that  it  is  lost  in  the  hori- 
zon, without  making  a  single  cur\'e.  The  trees,  which 
join  over  our  heads  like  the  vaults  of  a  flamboyant 
cathedral,  grow  nearer  together  in  the  distance,  and 
the  vaults  grow  smaller,  until  they  seem  finally  to  join, 
far  away  before  us.  I  wonder  if  you  see  all  this  as  I  do, 
and  if  you  feel  the  same  enchanted  air  hanging  over 
evcr>-thing?"  and  the  Comte  turned  to  me  with  an 
enquiring  look,  as  he  added,  "I  wish  that  I  could  make 
you  understand  the  fears  and  expectations  which  are 
passing  through  my  mind  just  now.     You  know  that  I 


-?- 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y .  T 


T .  T 


r .  Y 


i ,  T 


have  been  longing  to  see  Chambord  for  many  years,  and 
I  can  hardly  realize  now,  that  in  less  than  an  hour  it 
will  be  before  me.  I  ask  myself,  whether  or  not,  it  will 
come  up  to  ray  expectations,  whether  it  will  be  the 
reality  of  what  I  have  always  pictured  it  in  my  mind. 
For  Chambord  has,  in  the  minds  of  all  true  Royal- 
ists, a  frame,  a  setting,  which  is  an  intrinsic  part  of  the 
picture,  of  the  stone.  In  my  own  case,  this  is  of  so  high  a 
standard  that  I  fear  the  picture  and  the  stone  will  be  less 
beautiful  than  I  had  fancied  them.  The  setting  to 
Chambord  is  royalty  itself,  not  that  royalty  which  is  made 
of  gold  and  precious  stones,  and  surrounded  by  glories, 
honors  and  pleasures— royalty  with  its  intrigues,  its  scan- 
dals and  its  courtesans  (the  inevitable  satellites  of  power 
and  fame);  but  that  royalty  which  is  surrounded  by 
delusions  and  by  exile,  a  royalty  made  of  far  greater 
glory,  of  purity  of  soul,  of  the  greatness  of  hon- 
esty, of  peace  of  mind  and  heart,  and  of  true  friends, 
truer  perhaps  because  they  were  the  friends  of  misfor- 
tune. It  was  personified  by  le  Comte  de  Chambord,  who 
would  have  been  Henry  V  of  France  in  1871  had  he 
been  willing  to  exchange  the  white  fleur-de-lis6e  flag  of 
his  ancestors  for  the  tricolored  one  of  the  French  nation. 
"Chambord  was  bought  in  1821,  by  subscription,  for 
$300,000,  and  on  the  7th  of  February,  1830,  the  French 
people  presented  it  to  the  grandson  of  Charles  X,  le  due  de 
Bordeaux,  who  took,  in  exile,  the  title  of  Comte  de  Cham- 
bord. And  now,  when  a  true  Frenchman,  who  bears  in 
his  heart  an  impartiality  which  permits  him  to  judge  that 
which  is  best,  in  a  country  influenced  by  prejudice  or  old 
political  opinion,  when  he  makes  his  way,  I  say,  toward 
that  Chambord  given  by  a  people  to  their  king  (who 
never  reigned  as  king,  and  who  resided  there  only  for  one 
day),  all  seems  filled,  not  only  with  the  souvenirs,  but  with 
the  presence  of  one  who  knew  to  be  great  in  exile,  as 
great  perhaps  as  if  he  had  been  reigning,  king.  Ah,  I 
58 


-^ 


T .  V 


T/i 


V.T 


CH  AMBOR  1) 


wonder  if  Chambord  will  really  be  what  I  have  pictured 
it."  And  the  Comte  ended  his  long  speech  in  an  impress- 
ive whisper,  almost  to  himself. 

I  could  well  imagine,  although  it  was  impossible  for  me 
to  share  all  of  them,  the  feelings  which  were  governing 
the  mind  and  the  imagination  of  my  companion.  And  I 
could  fully  sympathize  with  this  old  Royalist,  thus  visit- 
ing for  the  first  time  this  scat  of  history  and  of  much 
that  he  held  dear  both  in  principles  and  in  politics.  The 
scenes  which  surrounded  us  increased  every  moment  his 
feelings  of  loyalty  to  the  old  rdgime  of  France,  and  the 
general  remorse  which  he  shared  for  its  upheaval  and  its 
overthrow. 

"This  approach  is  certainly  ver}-  beautiful,"  said  I. 
"This  forest  is  indescribably  imposing,  with  its  lofty 
trees.  Oaks  and  elms  rise  sixty  feet  above  the  ground. 
Their  branches  intermingle  and  link  with  one  another, 
like  giants'  arras,  as  if  thus  to  lift  themselves  higher  and 
higher.  The  heavy  leaves  which  crown  all  seem  to 
whisper  to  each  other.  I  wish  that  I  could  hear  what 
they  are  saying,  for  I  am  sure  it  must  be  in  praise  of  him 
who  is  no  more,  of  the  last  Royal  master  of  Cham- 
bord, although  he  passed  but  once  beneath  these  noble 
trees,  these  royal  arches,  designed  by  man  and  carried 
out  by  Nature." 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  replied  the  Comte,  with 
enthusiasm,  "if  you  could  know  how  everything  around 
speaks  to  me  of  him  who  would  have  made  the  happiness 
of  France!  Look  at  these  ferns,  growing  out  of  this 
mossy  bed,  in  the  shade  of  the  giant  trees.  Look  at 
these,  just  coming  out  of  the  ground.  Their  first  leaves 
are  scarcely  out,  and  they  lift  their  heads  already  toward 
the  sky,  as  if  they  thought  that  in  one  year  they  might 
meet  these  giant  companions." 

As  he  spoke  a  distant  bell  tolled  twelve  o'clock. 

We  crossed  the  "rendezvous  de  chassc,"  where  the  ave- 
59 


*  .  T 


T .  y 


Y .  r 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


nues  of  "Pologne"  and  "du  Roy,"  with  five  others,  meet 
and  depart  again  in  all  directions  from  the  pointed  fingers 
of  a  white  sign-post.  Here,  the  forest  is  composed 
entirely  of  pine  trees,  and  the  air  is  scented,  far  and  near, 
by  their  fragrant  odor.  We  sit  down  to  rest,  leaning 
against  a  young  tree  swayed  to  and  fro  by  the  wind  as 
it  passes  by.  And  we  dream  and  muse  on  all  around,  on 
the  beauty  of  Nature  and  on  the  chateau  which  we  are  so 
soon  to  see.  We  listen  to  the  wind  and  the  trees,  and 
we  seem  to  hear  the  waves  of  an  eastern  sea  as  they 
break  over  the  sandy  beach — loud  and  louder,  then  soft 
again,  but  alwaj^s  with  a  wonderful  depth  and  an 
indefiniteness  which  holds  us  in  an  increasing  expecta- 
tion. Another  wave  bi-eaks,  prouder  and  louder  than  the 
last — breaks  with  the  roar  of  thunder — on  the  sand.  Can 
you  not  hear  it?     It  is  the  wind  playing  with  the  pines. 

As  we  come  nearer  to  Chambord  the  scenery  becomes 
sadder  and  more  barren.  The  trees  of  the  forest  are  now 
small  and  far  apart.  Vegetation  seems  to  fade  away  and 
to  die  almost,  as  if  unable  to  live  longer  in  the  heart  of  so 
much  glor>'  passed  awa}'. 

"What  a  strange  contrast  this  is,"  said  the  Comte, 
"and  how  in  keeping  is  such  sadness  with  one's  inner 
feelings!  Passed  monarchy!  What  is  there  sadder  than 
its  crumbled  glory,  if  it  be  not  the  death  of  old  and  hon- 
ored institutions?  And  what  is  there  more  barren  or 
more  shallow,  if  it  be  not  the  barrenness  and  shallowness 
of  modern  ones?  See,  even  the  trees  partake  of  my 
feelings.  They  are  shrivelled  up,  for  they  need  the  air 
of  royalty  to  make  them  grow. ' ' 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  I  broke  in,  "why  are  you,  with 
all  your  loyalty  to  the  old  regime  and  its  royalty,  with 
much  of  which  I  sympathize,  why  are  you,  with  it  all, 
so  full  of  prejudice  and  narrow-mindedness?" 

"That  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  Comte,  "perhaps 
you  may  account  for  that  better  than  I.  But  how  could 
60 


C  H  A  M  B  O  R  D 

we  part  with  the  only  thing  left  to  us  of  our  past  ideal, 
the  souvenir  of  bygone  greatness?  They  have  tried 
to  take  everything  from  us;  but  one  thing,  however, 
is  left  to  us — at  least  I  suppose  it  is — the  liberty  of 
thought." 

We  continued  upon  our  road,  in  silence,  for  some  time 
after  this;  and  at  last  there  arose,  out  of  the  heath  and  the 
stunted  underbrush  around  us,  a  long  line  of  a  greenish 
hue  broken  here  and  there  by  whiter  places.  This  line 
of  green  trees  (for  so  it  proved  to  be)  is  unbroken  for 
many  miles,  on  the  right  as  well  as  on  the  left;  but 
directly  in  front  of  us,  and  on  the  road,  is  an  open  space 
of  several  metres. 

"The  park!"  exclaimed  the  Comte,  taking  hold  of  my 
arm.  "Excuse  me,  my  dear  friend,  my  limbs  give  way 
beneath  me.  May  I  lean  upon  your  arm?  Imagine — the 
park  of  ChambordI  We  are  treading  upon  sacred  soil. 
We  are  about  to  traverse  that  avenue  so  often  rutted  by 
the  royal  equipages  of  Francois  I  and  his  court,  of 
Henry  II  and  a  hundred  others,  coming  in  a  long,  illus- 
trious line,  down  to  the  present  master,  the  Due  de 
Parme,  Comte  de  Bardi." 

And  as  we  passed  through  the  modern  gateway,  with 
its  house  also  modem  with  its  roof  of  red  tiles  and  its 
walls  of  gray,  I  saw  the  Comte  lift  his  hat  in  respect,  as  if 
he  were  passing  a  cross  at  the  comer  of  two  roads,  and  I 
should  not  wonder  if  he  had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Five  thousand  hectares  of  park — twenty-four  kilo- 
metres of  walls,  at  least — five  farms,  a  church,  a  village — 
five  hundred  inhabitants — an  income  of  thirty  thousand 
dollars  a  year — how  great  this  park  is!"  I  heard  the 
Comte  mumbling  to  himself,  as  we  were  walking  over  the 
avenue  leading  through  the  park.  "There  is  a  small 
roof,"  he  continued.  "It  must  be  one  of  the  farms.  I 
wonder  if  it  could  be  the  one  called  'Litia,'  after  one  of 
the  children  of  Berthier,  Prince  de  Wagram,  who  owned 
6i 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN    TOURAINE 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y.Y 


Y .  Y 


Chambord  at  the  beginning  of  this  century.  It  had  been 
given  to  him  by  Napoleon." 

"What  a  pity  the  trees  are  not  better  here!"  I  put  in 
casually. 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  they  were  not  so  when  Royalty 
owned  Chambord,  when  Francois  I,  Francois  II,  Henri 
II,  Louis  XIII,  hunted  among  these  beautiful  avenues 
at  the  heels  of  a  royal  pack  of  hounds.  I  almost  feel  as 
if  we  should  meet  them  at  a  turning  of  the  road.  Do 
you  know  why  the  trees  are  so  small  and  so  scarce  here?" 

"Because  of  the  Republic,  I  suppose,  and  possibly 
because  the  soil  is  bad,"  I  replied,  jokingly. 

"It  may  be  for  both  these  reasons,"  added  my  friend, 
rather  stiffly,  I  thought,  "and  to  these  I  will  add  a  third. 
It  is  because  the  'New  Aristocracy,'  which  was  repre- 
sented here  in  the  person  of  la  Princesse  de  Wagram, 
was  always  more  or  less  in  need  of  money.  It  was  she 
ordered  trees  cut  down,  to  increase  her  income,  and 
finally,  I  believe,  she  rented  Chambord  to  an  English- 
man for  4,  ooo  francs  a  year.  She  was  afterwards  allowed 
to  sell  it,  and  was  going  to  do  so  to  'la  bande  noire'; 
but  Chambord  was  saved  from  destruction  by  the  sub- 
scription, with  which  it  was  bought  for  le  Due  de 
Bordeaux." 

"Poor  Princesse  de  Wagram !  You  would  have  had  her 
starve  to  death,  I  suppose,  rather  than  sell  a  tree.  But, 
nevertheless,  I  can  but  agree  with  you  that  it  is  almost  a 
sacrilege  to  cut  down  beautiful  trees,  especially  in  such  a 
place  and  such  a  park  as  this." 

"It  must  be  well-nigh  impossible  for  any  one,  even 
royalty,  to  use  Chambord  as  a  residence,"  mused  the 
Comte,  half  to  me  and  half  to  himself,  as  we  walked  on 
arm  in  arm.  "I  have  been  told  that  the  revolution  of  1793 
left  not  a  single  piece  of  furniture  in  the  chateau,  and  that 
when  Napoleon  wished  to  refurnish  it  for  the  princes  of 
Spain,  during  their  exile,  he  was  told  that  it  would  cost 
63 

i 


CHAMBORD 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


9,000,000  francs.  Four  hundred  and  forty  rooms  are 
not  easy  to  furnish.  Oh,  there  is  the  castle  now!"  And, 
in  fact,  there  appeared,  just  over  the  hill  which  we  were 
climbing,  and  some  miles  away,  a  mass  of  spires,  cam- 
paniles, high  stone  chimneys  and  carved  stone  windows, 
the  whole  showing  in  relief  against  the  dark  slate  of  the 
roofs.  It  was  not  unlike  a  confused  mass  of  stone  open- 
work, in  different  shades.  In  a  few  minutes  all  disap- 
peared once  more  behind  a  bit  of  shrubbery.  We 
crossed  another  "rendezvous  de  chasse,"  surrounded  by 
well  trimmed  fir  trees.  Alleys  and  paths,  now  in  good 
order,  now  altogether  wild,  crossed  and  recrossed  each 
other,  and  we  were  forever  upon  the  long,  straight  road 
with  the  "campanile"  of  Chambord  showing,  from  time  to 
time,  in  the  centre  of  the  open  space  before  us.  As  we 
drew  nearer,  the  roofs  and  pinarets  grew  more  and  more 
distinct,  though  still  far  from  us.  The  great,  gray  mass 
seemed  to  grow  up  slowly  out  of  the  ground,  suggesting 
the  effect  of  a  mirage,  in  a  wilderness. 
-  "Are  you  not  overwhelmed  with  a  sense  of  almost 
overpowering  sadness?"  said  the  Comte. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  am,"  was  my  reply.  "It  gives  an 
impression  of  solitude,  of  silence,  of  fear  lest  anything 
might  come  to  disturb  the  fascination  of  this  wilderness, 
— a  wilderness  which  has  not,  perhaps,  the  grandiose 
effect  of  a  true  wilderness,  but  which  has  the  depth  of  a 
past  without  a  present.  Life  seems  to  have  shrunk 
from  this  place,  and  one  fears  that  it  may  come  back 
to  disturb  the  stillness  of  death." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  Comte  rejoined,  "it  is  a  monument, 
bom  of  Royalty,  which  needed  Royalty,  to  live,  and  which 
will  sleep  in  death-like  quiet  until  its  Royalty  returns. " 

"And  therefore  has  a  good  chance  to  sleep  forever,"  I 
put  in. 

"Who  can  tell?  The  wheel  of  fortune,  you  know,  is  a 
capricious  one  and  may  turn  once  more,  so  that  it  points 

63 


4  .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 

to  the  royal  blue  of  France,  leaving  the  Republic  aside. 
That  which  turns  in  French  minds  is  even  more  capricious 
than  the  wheel  of  fortune,"  answered  the  Comte,  more 
to  himself  than  to  me. 

As  he  spoke,  we  emerged  into  a  rather  bare  and  arid 
plain,  stretching  away  for  some  distance,  and  cut  by 
large,  straight  avenues,  which  ran  between  great  squares 
of  unkempt  grass.  Some  sickly-looking  linden  trees  alone 
held  up  their  shortened  branches  in  the  foreground,  and 
seemed  to  deplore  the  fact  that  they  had  not  lived  and 
died  three  centuries  before.  And  here  a  gigantic 
pile  of  stone  seemed  to  have  arisen  from  the  ground. 
Surrounded  by  its  majestic  air  of  sadness  and  dignitj', 
impossible  to  describe,  and  yet  impossible  to  escape 
from  in  the  presence  of  this  great  being,  it  seemed  to 
have  a  soul,  and  yet  to  be  more  ghost  than  real.  Its 
four  open  cupolas  arose,  like  accompanying  guards, 
about  the  stone  fleur-de-lis,  which  held  its  head  above 
them  all,  in  the  centre  of  the  great  campanile.  And  their 
massive  towers  beneath  seemed  to  stand  as  the  great 
circular  supporters  of  the  whole.  An  almost  fairy-like 
interweaving,  of  stones,  pilasters  and  monumental  chim- 
neys, of  lace  work  and  balustrades,  of  cornices  and  carv- 
ing, surmounted  the  whole,  and  arose  like  the  neck  and 
shoulders  of  this  vast  creature  whose  body  was  the  don- 
jon of  the  chateau.  And  yet,  as  the  visitor  stands,  like 
a  pigmy,  beside  this  wonderful  architectural  creation, 
enveloped  in  its  gray  shroud  of  sadness  and  solitude,  the 
details  begin,  one  by  one,  to  stand  out,  and  to  become 
more  visible.  The  chimneys,  especially,  which  by  a 
wonderful  art  have  become  the  chief  ornaments  of 
Chambord,  add  their  beauty,  at  all  points,  to  that  roof 
which  has  made  it  such  a  marvel  of  the  French  Renais- 
sance, untouched  by  Italian  influence.  The  whole  is 
encircled  by  a  massive  cornice,  made  of  Renaissance 
shells,  which  seem  to  bend  beneath  the  wealth  of  the 


<~'// 

€ 


C  H  A  M  B  O  R  1) 


carv'inp  above  them.  A  little  lower  down,  and  to  the 
rijjht  and  left,  come  the  straight  lines  of  the  roofs  which 
join  the  donjon  to  the  round,  comer  towers.  And  lower 
still  come  the  walls,  hard  and  dry,  not  even  softened  by 
the  gray  hues  of  time.  They  are  cold  and  bare,  cut  by 
high  windows  close  together,  and  divided  at  each  story 
l>y  the  strong  horizontal  lines  which  alone  endeavor  to 
relieve  their  nudity.  It  is  strange  that  as  the  eye  falls 
lower  and  lower  toward  the  ground,  this  bare  simplicity 
shows  in  stronger  contrast  to  the  warmth  and  artistic 
wonders  of  the  roofs.  The  roofs  of  Chambord !  What  a 
note  the  words  strike  upon  the  heart!  What  a  magic 
they  hold  for  all  those  who  know  them,  or  who  have 
seen  them!  What  a  thrill  of  artistic  and  historic  great- 
ness they  contain !  What  a  world  they  are  within  them- 
selves, high  up  above  the  head,  as  we  stand  before  the 
castle  gate,  high  and  higher  every  moment,  as  we 
approach,  till  they  seem  almost  to  hang  upon  the  air  in 
the  soft  light  of  the  departing  day! 

Thus  appears  the  south  facade:  nearly  forty  metres 
high  and  one  hundred  and  fifty-six  metres  long. 

The  Comte  began  speaking  to  himself  as  we  stood,  still 
gazing  at  the  chateau. 

"And  here  it  has  been  standing  for  more  than  three 
hundred  years,"  said  he,  breaking  in  upon  my  revery. 
"Here  it  has  been  since  1523,  when  Francois  I  ordered  it 
to  be  erected  by  Trinquaux,  an  architect  of  Blois,  as  a 
hunting  lodge — a  royal  hunting  lodge,  in  the  midst  of 
the  w^ildemess  of  Sologne,  close  to  a  little  stream  called 
!e  Cosson,  whose  yellow,  muddy  waters  wind  in  and  out 
among  the  surrounding  trees!  What  a  curious  idea! 
~But  I  suppose  that  'le  Roi  Chevalier*  required  change 
and  diversion,  so  that  his  love  for  hunting  led  him  to 
choose  the  best  countrj'  for  hunting  rather  than  the  most 
beautiful.  In  1538  Chambord  was  nearly  completed. 
How  beautiful  it  must  have  been  then !     And  no  wonder 

6S 


^a^a^^^^^a 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

that  it  caused  'Charles-quint'  to  utter  a  cry  of  admiration. 
It  is  both  curious  and  interesting  to  note  how  the  walls 
grow  richer  and  richer  as  they  approach  the  roofs,  where 
they  reach  the  climax  of  their  art  and  their  perfection." 
Here  I  could  not  refrain  from  remarking:  "I  fear,  my 
dear  friend,  that  curiosity  and  interest  are  so  tenderly 
amalgamated  in  your  mind  that  I  shall  soon  have  to 
invent  a  new  name  for  the  resulting  combination  of  these 
two  predominant  qualities  in  your  character.  Curiosity  and 
interest !  How  much  they  mean  to  Frenchmen  in  gen- 
eral and  to  you  in  particular!  Hereafter,  when  you  wish 
to  speak  of  them  both  say  only  'interest,'  and  I  promise 
you  I  will  always  take  the  other  for  granted.  You  will 
forgive  my  little  interruption,  I  am  sure."  And  the 
Comte  continued  in  as  forgiving  a  manner  as  was  possible 
under  the  circumstances: 

-JL^  "Chambord  was  built  as  a  hunting  lodge,  and  so  it  was 
constructed  with  a  view  to  overlooking  the  chase  in  the 
park.  Thus  the  roofs  became  the  most  important  part, 
since  they  were  to  be  used  as  a  rendezvous  for  the  court 
to  watch  the  huntsmen  in  the  distance.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  the  richness  of  decoration  is  centered  there, 
rather  than  upon  the  walls  of  the  castle.  Another 
strange  thing,  of  which  Chambord  is  an  exponent,  is  the 
fact  that  the  architects  and  the  architectural  schools  in 
the  time  of  French  Renaissance  seem  to  have  fallen  into 
strange  insignificance,  considering  the  importance  of  that 
architectural  period.  Indeed,  the  Italian  influence  was  so 
strongly  felt  in  everything  at  that  time,  that  it  has  even 
ascribed  the  conception  of  Chambord  to  the  great  Italian, 
le  Primatice,  although  this  seems  well-nigh  impossible, 
for  the  latter  was  not  in  France  at  the  time,  as  there  was 
a  war  between  France  and  Italy.  It  is  extraordinary, 
however,  how  strong  the  Italian  feeling  is,  in  all  that 
architecture  which  we  call  French  Renaissance.  Italy 
and  Italian  art  seem  to  have  been  embraced,  on  all  sides 
66 


CHAMiH)RD 

and  at  all  points,  throxighout  these  chateaux  of  Touraine. 
I  suppose,  of  course,  that  Catherine  de  Medici  was 
largely  responsible  for  it,  and  it  is  in  this  perhaps  that 
she  impressed  her  existence,  and  its  after  effects,  upon 
France,  more  than  in  anything  else.  It  is  wonderful  to 
think  how  much  art  Henry  II  brought  into  his  nation 
and  among  his  people  when  he  asked  the  famous  Italian 
princess  to  be  "la  Reine  de  France."  It  is  wonderful  to 
think  of  the  power  which  one  human  being  may  possess 
and  may  exercise  upon  people  and  peoples  yet  unborn, 
upon  a  nation  whose  age  and  position  may  impress  that 
power  throughout  the  civilized  world,  and  hand  it  down 
to  posterity.  And  what  is  it,  my  dear  friend,  which  has 
created  this  wonderful  power  in  the  past  and  present  of 
history  and  which  still  continues  to  create  it  wherever  it 
chances  to  exist  to-day?  What?  Why,  it  is  Royalty! 
Royalty  alone  has  been  able  to  do  it  in  the  past,  and 
Royalty  alone  is  capable  of  doing  so  to-day,  and  of  doing 
so  to-morrow.  Run  over  the  greatest  individual  influ- 
ences of  the  world  in  your  mind,  taking  their  lasting 
effects  upon  art,  architecture,  religion,  politics,  govern- 
ment, manners,  customs,  or  institutions,  anything,  in 
short,  which  goes  to  make  a  nation  great  among  its 
neighbors,  and  you  will  see  more  than  a  little  truth  in 
what  I  say." 

As  the  Comte  was  speaking  we  left  the  south  facade  of 
the  castle  and  walked  along  by  the  great  west  walls,  leav- 
ing upon  our  left  the  little  church,  situated  some  hundred 
yards  away.  Its  newly  repaired  facade  was  half  hidden 
by  the  trees  around,  and  its  miniature  steeple — the  exact 
copy  of  one  of  the  monumental  chimneys  of  the  castle — 
threw  its  shadows  over  the  nave,  to  give  a  softening,  gray 
efifect  to  the  milk-white  stone.  Before  us  and  still  a 
little  to  the  left  stood  our  hotel,  a  building  like  a  thou- 
sand others  all  over  France,  looking  suspiciously  like  a 
square  box,  covered    with    white    mortar.      "Hotel   du 

67 


TWO    GENTLEiMEN    IN   TOURAINL 


T ,  T 


T .  T 


j^ 


r.¥ 


V .  y 


Grand  St.  Michel"  was  written  in  large  black  letters 
beneath  the  cornice.  "Hotel  du  Grand  St.  Michel," 
read  the  Comte.  "The  twenty-ninth  of  September  is  its 
feast  day,  and  the  birthday  of  our  dead  King,  Henri, 
Comte  de  Chambord.  What  a  date  is  that  for  all  French 
Royalists,  and  what  an  odd  souvenir  of  it,  is  this  awk- 
ward, uninteresting,  two-storied  hotel  I  Does  it  not  seem 
strange?" 

Yes,  it  was  strange.  Stranger  still  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  great  historic  pile  of  stones  near-by  and  beside  the 
picturesque  stream  which  ran  quietly  upon  the  left  of  the 
small,  square  courtyard,  dotted  with  round  tables,  at 
which  sat  numbers  of  mixed  tourists.  Carriages  of 
different  degrees  and  station  in  the  world  were  passing  to 
and  fro,  some  bringing  the  chatelaines  of  the  neighbor- 
hood and  their  guests  to  visit  the  old  "monument"  of 
Sologne,  and  others,  not  so  attractive,  filled  with  annoy- 
ing specimens  of  that  most  annoying  class  known  as 
tourists.  A  number  of  bicycles  were  also  to  be  seen, 
surmounted  by  men  who  might  have  been  described  as 
'moth-eaten,'  and  by  colossal  women  who  appeared  even 
more  gigantic  than  usual,  in  their  endeavors  to  appear 
graceful.  They  seemed  to  emerge  from  all  sides,  herald- 
ing their  aiTival,  and  greeting  one  another  with  shrieks 
(such  as  only  a  French  bicyclist  can  give  birth  to),  and 
by  that  never-ceasing  "dring,  dring,  dring,"  which  issues 
from  a  nickel-plated  bell  upon  the  handle.  Truly  the 
bicycle  is  a  modern  invention  which  embodies  the  very 
quintessence  of  modernism.  Modernism  seems  to  burst 
forth  from  every  spoke  of  the  bicycle's  wheel.  Modern- 
ism seems  to  have  settled  like  a  hopeless  canker  upon 
each  and  every  votary  of  the  Goddess  of  Bicycles.  In 
another  century  the  latter  will  have  found  a  place  in 
mythology.  But  at  Chambord  it  was  like  the  buzzing  of 
a  thousand  bees,  filling  the  air  on  our  left,  while  on  the 
right  rose  the  white  mass,  the  chateau,  erect  and  silent, 
68 


i .  T 


T .  i 


V ,  Y 


V .  Y 


T .  V 


J.. 
Y.i 


C  H  A  M  B  ()  R  D 

lifting  its  proud  and  beautiful  head  in  unspeakable  disap- 
proval of  this  sacrilege  of  modern  days.  It  was  more 
eloquent,  and  spoke  more  for  the  greatness  of  those  gone 
by  than  any  voice  or  pen  could  tell.  And  the  criticism 
of  it  all,  from  both  of  us,  was: 

"Great  and  beautiful  indeed,  but  cold  and  sad." 

At  this  moment  some  ten  or  fifteen  tourists,  escorted  by 
a  guide,  came  out  of  the  chateau  through  one  of  the 
great  archways.  As  they  parted  they  dropped  the  little 
"pitce  blanche"  into  the  hand  of  the  guide,  a  "pour- 
boire  '  for  which  some  were  not  even  thanked. 

"I  wonder  what  the  impressions  of  those  people  are," 
remarked  the  Comte,  as  they  dispersed.  "It  seems  to 
mc,  that  if  I  saw  Chambord  in  such  a  way — hurried  and 
pushed  through  the  rooms,  not  unlike  a  letter  through  a 
pneumatic  tube — I  should  wish  never  to  come  back  to  it. " 

"Verj'  few  are  as  fortunate  as  we,"  I  rejoined,  "to 
see  the  castle  as  we  wish  to,  by  special  admission. 
Let  us  wait  until  sunset,  when  every  one  will  have  left, 
and  then  we  will  go  in  and  wander  at  our  leisure  through 
those  vast  halls  whose  pillaged  walls  have  looked  down 
upon  so  much  historj-.  We  will  mount  the  wonderful 
staircase  to  the  roofs,  where  we  may  see  the  sun  go  down 
in  the  centre  of  the  western  vista  from  the  campanile." 

It  was  after  seven  when  we  passed  under  the  same 
archway  in  the  middle  of  the  western  faqade.  We  found 
ourselves  almost  immediately  in  the  inner  courtyard, 
from  whose  centre  rises  the  donjon.  The  walls  are 
long,  low  buildings  of  one  and  two  stories.  The  central 
portion  of  Chambord,  the  donjon,  is  surrounded  on  three 
sides  by  this  courtyard,  and  on  the  fourth  side  it  coincides 
with  the  north  facade,  so  as  to  make  one  great  even  wall, 
cut  ecjually  by  four  round  towers. 

"Here  we  have  the  customary  plan,  upon  which  feudal 
chateaux  were  built,"  said  the  Comte,  as  we  paused  in 
the  great  court,  to  take  in  the  scene.      'First,  there  is 
69 

lYAAtAAYAA'i: 


i .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

always  a  great  square  mass,  with  its  proverbial  round 
towers,  enclosing  the  whole  chateau.  Then  there  comes 
a  smaller  pile  of  stones,  with  towers  also — the  donjon. 
Custom  has  preserved  these  plans  and  their  ancient 
names,  so  that  if,  in  the  sixteenth  centurj',  we  find  towers 
and  donjons  and  battlements,  they  are  onlj^  as  ornaments 
and  as  the  beautified  remains  of  past  feudality." 

Our  guide,  taking  from  a  large  bunch  of  keys  the 
largest  one,  turned  it  in  the  rusty  lock  of  the  donjon  door. 
The  hea\y  oak  swung  open  before  us.  We  entered,  and 
it  banged  behind,  banged  with  a  moaning,  an  almost 
tearful  noise,  like  the  cry  of  a  child.  The  sound,  echoed 
by  the  stone  vaults,  came  back  to  us,  ten  times  repeated. 
Instinctively  we  turned  as  if  to  depart,  to  leave  this  cold, 
damp  atmosphere  where  the  frosts  of  winter  seemed  no 
more  to  penetrate  than  the  warmth  of  summer.  But  the 
door  was  already  locked  behind  us,  and  my  friend  and  I 
were  alone;  alone  in  the  great,  deserted  chateau  of 
Chambord.  We  were  standing  in  one  of  the  four  "Salles 
des  Gardes."  These  are  forty  feet  long  and  thirty  feet 
wide,  and  they  form  the  arms  of  a  Greek  cross  whose 
centre  is  occupied  by  the  wonderful,  double  staircase. 
These  four  giant  halls  occupy  the  greater  part  of  the 
donjon  and  reach  to  the  roofs,  except,  as  is  now  the  case, 
where  they  have  been  broken  by  floors  which  cut  them  at 
the  different  stories. 

Before  we  realized  it,  our  surroundings  had  torn  the 
present,  the  living  present,  from  us,  and  had  carried  us 
back  to  the  dead,  the  dying  past,  which  fascinates  one  so 
that  one  cannot  escape  from  its  grasp.  We  were  as  if 
petrified.  We  seemed  riveted  to  the  flagstone  on  which 
we  stood.  Perhaps  we  feared  to  move,  lest  each  step 
taken  by  us  should  be  brought  back  in  a  thousand  echoes, 
from  the  vaulted  ceilings  of  the  "Salles  des  Gardes." 
As  we  looked  up  at  them  we  could  see  those  compart- 
ments into  which  the  stone  was  furrowed  to  encase  the 


CHAMBORD 


salamander  of  Francois  I,  which,  according  to  some,  is 
able  to  exist  in  lire  and,  according  to  others,  cxtin^juishes 
it  by  its  ver)'  coldness.  In  every  other  compartment 
appeared  the  royal  F,  surmounted  by  the  crown  of 
France,  and  surrounded  by  the  "Cordon  de  St.  Fran9ois. " 
"St.  Francois  was  the  founder  of  the  Franciscan  fathers, 
who  still  wear  the  same  cordon  about  their  waists,"  said 
the  Comte  to  me,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

A  ray  of  hght,  dimmed  by  the  growing  twilight, 
reached  us,  through  the  crack  of  a  door  which  stood  ajar 
upon  the  left.  As  if  drawn  on  by  an  enchanted  hand,  we 
crept  toward  it,  entered,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  large, 
square  room.  Some  six  or  eight  state  coaches  caught  the 
eye,  in  unexpected  brilliancy.  The  panelings  and  trap- 
pings were  of  dark  blue.  In  the  centre  of  the  boxes 
shone  the  three  golden  fleurs-de-lis,  upon  azure — the 
royal  arms  of  France.  They  were  surrounded  by  the 
lilies  of  France,  painted  upon  blue.  A  royal  crown  sur- 
mounted the  whole,  while  at  the  upper  comers  of  the 
coach  and  at  intervals  along  the  top  were  smaller  crowns 
of  silver.  The  hammer  cloth  was  dark  blue  also,  heavily 
fringed  with  gold ;  and  the  state  coach  of  the  king  was 
lined  with  white  satin,  quilted  with  gold. 

"And  this  is  all  that  is  left  of  Royalty,"  the  Comte 
broke  in  on  the  impressive  silence,  "eight  carriages, 
ordered  by  le  Comte  de  Chambord  from  a  Paris 
carossier.  And  they  have  remained  here  ever  since, 
untouched,  unused,  as  if  waiting  in  a  sort  of  stupor  for 
something  which  will  never  be.  Each  morning  they  are 
dusted  carefully,  as  if  the  king  were  to  drive  out  in  them 
that  day.  How  long  will  it  last?  We  know  not.  Once 
a  presumptuous  man  dared  to  ascend  the  king's  carriage, 
and  there  niffle  the  white  satin  of  the  cushions.  Since  that 
day  the  door  of  this  room  has  been  locked,  and  the  car- 
riages stand,  imtouched,  unseen,  except  by  a  few  who, 
by  special  favor,  may  look  at  them  without  touching." 
7« 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

We  turned  from  the  coaches,  and  were  once  more  in 
one  of  the  "Salle  des  Gardes"  and  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  wonderful  staircase,  the  climax  of  Chambord  in 
beauty  and  in  conception,  a  chef  d'oeuvre  of  art,  of 
execution,  and  of  wealth  of  detail.  The  staircase  is  com- 
pletely isolated,  and  runs,  like  one  great  shaft,  intricately 
chiseled  into  two  winding  stairs  which  unfold  themselves, 
within  the  lacework  of  the  whole,  up  to  the  roof.  These  two 
staircases,  twisted  into  one,  twined  about  one  another 
like  a  braid  of  hair,  make  it  possible  for  two  persons 
to  start  from  the  bottom  and  to  mount  to  the  very  top, 
without  once  meeting,  although  they  are  visible  to  one 
another,  through  the  lacework  of  the  ornamental  carving. 

We  started  in  this  way,  feeling  our  way  up  the  white 
stone  steps,  for  it  was  now  almost  dark.  When  I  had 
lost  sight  of  my  companion,  who  had  ascended  the  other 
staircase,  it  seemed  as  if  the  last  link  which  held  the 
present  to  the  past  had  parted.  And  as  I  mounted,  the 
past  seemed  to  surround  me  more  and  more  at  every 
step.  At  last  I  was  forced  to  stand  aside,  so  as  to 
allow  the  people  to  pass,  the  crowds  of  people  who 
inhabited  the  chateau  and  who  were  ever  passing  and 
repassing  over  the  great  staircase.  Soldiers,  valets, 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  court  were  meeting  one 
another  and  passing  me  at  every  turn.  Some  were 
descending  to  fulfil  an  order;  others  were  proudly 
ascending  to  the  private  apartments  of  the  king.  All 
were  beautifully  attired,  and  greeted  one  another  with  a 
nod  of  the  head,  with  a  smile.  Priceless  tapestries  hung 
from  the  walls,  and  drowned  the  sounds  of  their  steps. 
The  "frou-frou"  of  silks,  the  "cliquetis"  of  swords,  the 
"chuchotments"  of  love — it  was  all  there,  the  life  of 
Chambord.  And  to-day?  .  .  .  The  walls  are  bare  and 
damp.  The  sounds  are  uncanny.  Our  voices,  half 
restrained  in  our  throats  by  some  unconscious  fear, 
come  back  to  us  nevertheless,  increased  and  rendered 
72 


C  H  A  M  U  O  R  D 

harsh  by  the  echoing  of  the  stone.     It  is  the  death  of 
Clmmbord. 

We  have  reached  the  top.  The  network  of  stones  is 
lost  within  the  furrowed  vaults.  The  double  staircase 
has  become  a  single  mass,  that  springs  up  into  the  air 
over  the  roofs,  one  hundred  feet  above  the  ground. 
And  still  higher  up,  lost  almost  in  the  fleeting  light,  the 
great,  central  "campanile"  crowns  the  whole  edifice,  and 
ends  in  the  stone  fleur-de-lis  that  blooms  over  all.  We 
tread  the  topmost  stair;  we  pass  through  a  little  door, 
which  causes  us  to  bend  the  head,  and  we  come  out,  at 
last  upon  the  roofs — the  famous  roofs  of  Chambord. 

Is  it  possible  to  forget  our  first  impressions  of 
bewilderment,  of  ecstasy,  when  we  set  foot  upon  those 
roofs,  upon  those  hanging  avenues  and  streets,  lined  with 
the  fairest  jewels  of  architecture?  The  four  principal  ave- 
nues start  from  the  central  crowning  of  the  staircase,  and 
run,  north,  east,  south  and  west,  to  the  stone  balustrade, 
which  surrounds  the  entire  roof.  On  either  side  of  these 
four  aerial  avenues,  which  are  really  but  the  roofs  of  the 
four  great  chambers  of  the  chateau,  through  which  we 
entered,  and  which  are  the  continuance  of  the  motive  of 
the  Greek  cross,  arise  pile  upon  pile  of  rich  decorative 
detail.  Windows,  whose  massiveness  and  ornaments 
would  alone  make  a  miniature  chateau,  burst  forth  from 
the  roofs,  around,  above,  at  each  new  turn.  And  higher 
still  the  chimneys  of  the  roofs  of  Chambord  seem  to 
grow  from  the  very  midst  of  this  wealth  of  ornament  and 
beauty.  Here,  even  more  predominant  than  in  the 
smaller  pilasters,  is  seen  the  motif  of  stone  lozenges 
inlaid  with  black  slate.  It  is  indeed  impossible  to  tell 
this  slate  from  marble,  although  it  would  seem  otherwise. 
"The  orii^inal  plans  provided  for  black  Italian  marble," 
said  the  Comte  to  me,  as  we  stood  in  silent  admiration  of 
this  detail,  "but  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  this  at  the 
moment   of    construction,    owing   to    the    war    between 

73 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


V .  t 


T .  V 


France  and  Italy;  so  the  slate  was  substituted  and 
proved  so  good  an  imitation  that  it  has  been  left,  ever 
since.  See,  the  most  exquisite  ornamentation  of  the 
chimneys  is  about  their  tops,  where  the  delicacy  of  the 
artist's  taste  seems  fairly  to  have  reached  a  climax." 

And  as  we  wandered  on,  almost  buried  beneath  these 
masses  of  genius  which  loomed  up  on  every  side,  the 
great  heart  of  all,  the  climax  of  that  inimitable  staircase, 
the  zenith  of  the  artist's  power,  the  central  "campanile" 
of  Chambord,  loomed  ever  above  the  rest  and  stood  before 
us  whether  we  turned  to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  Eight 
arches,  flanked  by  columns,  with  pilasters  behind  them, 
enclosing  the  top  of  the  staircase  in  the  form  of  an  octa- 
gon, rose  directly  from  the  centre  of  the  roofs.  These 
arches  were  twenty-four  feet  in  height  and  supported 
another  tier  above.  But  here  the  solid  wall  and  the 
arches  filled  with  glass  windows  were  replaced  by  a  form 
of  flying  buttress,  if  one  might  call  them  so,  whose  mas- 
sive tops  made  them  almost  an  arch,  cut  in  twain  by  the 
circular  staircase,  mounting  ever  in  the  centre,  toward  the 
top.  Beneath  the  shade  of  these  eight  arches  radiating 
from  the  stair  one  could  walk,  and  leaning  over  the 
carved  stone  balustrade  look  here  again  upon  the  beauty 
of  the  ornamented  roofs.  And  as  we  gazed,  we  could  see 
great  medallions  carved  in  the  stone,  which  bore  the  ever 
recurring  salamander  and  the  royal  F,  surmounted  by  the 
crown  of  France. 

It  would  seem  that  here  the  artistic  longings  of  the 
most  excessive  nature  were  fully  realized,  and  that  no 
more  was  needed;  but  there  is  still  more.  Still  more, 
above ;  still  more,  higher  and  higher.  Still  more,  though 
we  mount  the  now  tiny  stair  into  the  "campanile"  and 
the  "belvidere,"  crowned  by  the  topmost  fleur-de-lis. 
Let  us  then  take  a  sweeping  glance  around,  for  we  may 
not  have  another  half  so  grand,  half  so  fair,  or  half  so 
high,  while  we  are  in  the  old  Touraine  which  lies  before 
74 
i 

'i' 


ill 


C  H  A  M  H  ()  R  I) 


Y  .  V 


V .  i 


t.t 


Y .  V 


us,  there  in  the  last  orange  glow  of  the  departed  sun. 
And  if  we  follow  these  avenues  of  the  roof  below  us,  if 
we  wind  our  way  around  these  great  towers,  around  the 
high  and  pointed  roofs  of  slate,  we  may  well  imagine  our- 
selves in  some  fairj'land.  This  maze  of  cupolas,  of 
domes,  of  towers,  appears  more  bewildering  to  us  than 
ever.  And  we  lean  against  the  stone,  in  an  artistic  intox- 
ication, so  overpowering  is  it. 

Oh,  matchless  evening  of  an  August  day!  You  have 
already  covered  the  ground  with  a  mantle  of  sleepiness, 
which  seems  to  hang  over  everything  and  to  cast  its 
shadow.  The  green  trees  in  the  plain,  a  hundred  feet 
below,  seem  to  slumber  in  the  shade.  Wearied  looking 
and  dark,  they  scarcely  show  against  the  ground.  A 
long  line  of  silvery  gray  winds  its  way  amidst  the  trees. 
It  is  the  tiny  river  Cosson,  catching  the  reflected  rays  of 
the  Starr}'  heavens.  But  we,  who  are  so  high  above,  we 
still  catch  the  mauve  tint  of  the  last  hour  of  the  day.  It 
is  a  faint  glimmer  which  gi%-es  not  strength  enough  to 
live  by  itself,  but  only  to  form  the  subject  and  the  sur- 
roundings of  a  dream. 

The  day  is  at  an  end,  and  we  are  left,  still  leaning 
against  the  "campanile,"  whose  wings  look  like  those  of 
some  great  firefly.  The  long  shadows  around  us  are  of 
the  same  pale  color  as  the  sky.  No  sound,  no  breath  dis- 
turbs the  silence.  These  marvels  of  artistic  genius  alone 
speak  to  us  from  every  side.  Their  splendor  is  brought 
out  the  more  by  the  very  contrast  of  flowering  beauty 
with  the  fading  of  decay.  Here  a  lace-work  colonnade, 
here  a  stone  tower  arises,  before  unnoticed.  The  faces 
of  the  gargoyles  make  strange  grimaces  at  us  in  the  even- 
ing light.  Carj-atids,  with  features  that  express  strange 
thoughts  and  strange  emotions,  look  down  upon  us  in  the 
gloom.  One  might  well  give  them  the  names  of  mis- 
tresses and  courtiers  and  monarchs  that  have  passed,  for 
they  are  surrounded  by  the  air  of  other  days.     Indeed, 

75 


i .  r 


T ,  V 


T .  V 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

under  the  weight  of  such  overpowering  beauty  as  they 
support,  our  own  eyelids  close,  and  we  are  in  another 
world,  with  scenes  and  characters  surrounding  us  that 
have  long  passed  into  history. 

A  strange,  dreamy  atmosphere  attends  us.  The  faint 
sounds  of  distant  music  reach  the  ear.  The  hand  of 
some  fairy  seems  to  have  placed  a  light  in  the  open  cam- 
panile, beneath  the  fleur-de-lis.  It  is  "le  feu  du  roi. " 
It  burns  only  when  the  king  is  present.  Lines  of 
Venetian  lanterns  and  tiny  lamps,  of  stained  glass,  are 
hung  across  the  avenues,  above  the  head,  or  twined  about 
the  towers.  Large  orange  trees,  brought  recently  from 
Italy,  are  planted  in  wooden  boxes,  and  perfume  the  air 
with  the  intoxicating  odor  of  bridal  flowers.  They  are 
grouped  here  and  there,  in  clusters,  about  the  windows  of 
the  roofs  or  of  the  great  towers.  In  the  shadows  of  their 
branches  there  are  tables  spread  out,  laden  with  fruits 
and  wines  and  flowers  in  gold  and  silver  dishes.  Valets 
and  servants  hover  around,  and  give  last  touches  to  the 
decorations.  And  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  some 
large  entertainment  will  take  place.  Soon  the  murmur 
of  voices,  coming  as  if  from  the  court  below,  reaches  the 
ear.  The  murmur  increases  in  a  crescendo,  like  the 
ninth  wave  of  a  summer  sea,  till  it  breaks  and  falls  upon 
us.  The  door  leading  from  the  double  staircase  onto  the 
roofs  opens,  and  an  endless  stream  of  gentlemen  and 
ladies  pours  forth.  They  wear  costumes  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  as  they  emerge  from  the  staircase,  two 
by  two,  their  eyes  and  faces  tell  us  of  what  they  must 
be  thinking.  They  move  slowly  forward,  lingering 
beneath  the  orange  trees,  or  stopping  at  the  tables. 
They  walk  toward  the  balustrade,  and  look  through  the 
park. 

They  seem  to  be  watching,  as  if  waiting  to  detect  some 
light,  some  unknown  object,  in  the  forest.  But  the  night 
has  spread  its  dark  wings  over  all,  and  there  is  nothing 
76 


CH  AMBORI) 

to  be  seen.  They  turn  from  tlic  stone  balustrade,  dis- 
couraged by  their  unsuccessful  attempts,  and  wander 
once  more  around  the  towers  and  in  and  out  among  the 
orange  trees.  Suddenly  a  voice  is  heard  above  the  mur- 
murs of  conversation,  "Le  Roi!  le  Roi!"  And  all  turn 
toward  the  door  from  whence  it  comes,  hushed  and  with 
bowing  heads.  A  tall,  thin  figure  wearing  a  velvet 
"pourpoint,"  with  puffed  sleeves,  appears  in  the  midst 
of  a  respectful  court.  It  is  Fran9ois  I.  At  his  side 
walks  another  figure.  And  we  can  hear  those  about  us 
whispering:  "Charles-quint,  the  Emperor." 

The  laughter  and  talking  is  replaced  by  a  silence  so 
profound  that  the  steps  of  the  Emperor  and  the  King  may 
be  heard  distinctly,  as  they  move  slowly  through  the 
crowds  of  courtiers. 

They  stop,  here  and  there,  to  speak  to  a  favorite,  or  to 
some  dignitary.  "Le  Roi  Chevalier"  gives  a  smile,  a 
compliment,  to  the  beauties  of  his  court.  They  receive 
them  with  a  bow  of  respect  and  admiration.  One  of 
them,  a  woman  of  extraordinary  beauty,  receives  more 
than  a  bow  from  the  King.  He  looks  at  her  in  a  peculiar 
way;  we  do  not  understand,  for  we  know  not  the  secrets 
of  the  court.  And  as  he  lifts  his  finger,  to  command  her 
attention,  we  can  hear  him  say:  "Descend  to  my  private 
apartments,  and  look  upon  the  windows.  For  on  one 
of  the  panes  of  glass  I  have  written,  with  the  diamond  of 
my  ring,  what  I  have  learned  through  your  inconstancy. 
Stay,  I  will  repeat  it  now : 

'Souvent  femme  varie. 
Bien  fol  est  qui  s'y  fie." 

"And  now  adieu." 

He  passes  on,  and  leans  over  the  stone  balustrade  with 
Charles-quint.  They  look,  with  the  others,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  park,  and  endeavor  to  pierce  the  darkness  of 
the  night.     But  nothing  is  to  be  seen. 


TWO    GENTLEiMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  V 


Of  a  sudden,  the  sound  of  horns  and  the  barking  of 
hounds  is  heard.  Far  in  the  distance  appear  the  flicker- 
ing lights  of  a  hundred  torches,  winding  in  and  out, 
between  the  poplar  trees  which  line  the  river's  bank. 
And  in  the  uncertain  light  which  they  throw  around,  now 
faint,  now  strong,  a  stag  is  seen  to  plunge  into  the  river 
and  to  make  for  the  opposite  bank.  He  is  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  maddened  hounds.  The  splashing  of  the 
water,  thus  disturbed  from  its  peaceful  slumber,  is 
brought  back  to  us  over  the  night  air.  The  breaking  of 
many  twigs,  the  thud  of  a  fallen  steed,  and  then,  the 
King's  voice  breaks  in  upon  the  distant  sounds. 

"By  our  Lady,  there  is  the  hunt!  The  midnight 
hunt!"  he  cries.     And  the  whole  court  answers: 

"The  hunt!     The  hunt!" 

But  soon  the  sounds,  the  lights,  the  barking  have  all 
vanished,  and  the  hunt  continues,  unseen,  through  the 
thick  green  of  the  forest. 


Y .  i 


T .  T 


i .  T 


"One!  two!  three!  four!  .  .  .  Ten  deep  notes,  from  a 
massive  bell  above  our  heads,  bring  us  back  again  to 
reality.  Cursed  bell,  what  have  you  done?  The  pic- 
tures and  the  dreams  of  courts  and  kings  and  centuries 
now  gone  are  dispelled,  as  all  our  pictures  sooner  or 
later  are  dispelled  through  life.  The  fairest  things  must 
have  an  end.  The  sweetest  dreams  are  bound  to  have 
their  waking.  And  I  have  awakened  from  my  dream. 
It  must  have  been  a  dream,  for  I  know  not  where  I  am 
and  cry  out  to  my  friend: 

"Where  am  I?     Where  am  I?" 

"On  the  roofs  of  Chambord,  foolish  child,"  answers  my 
companion.  And  taking  me  by  the  hand,  for  I  was  half 
asleep,  he  led  the  way  down  the  stairs. 

We  passed  through  the  apartments  of  Louis  XIV, 
where  nothing  is  left  but  the  table  upon  which  Maurice  de 
Saxe,  one  of  the  owners  of  Chambord,  was  embalmed. 
78 


r .  i 


V .  T 


C  H  A  M  U  O  R  D 


V .  v 


T .  V 


r .  Y 


V .  T 


Something  of  death  seems  ever  to  follow  us  through  this 
massive  ruin  of  a  dead  and  long  decaying  monarchy.  Some 
few  pictures  yet  hang  from  the  walls.  But  they  are  in 
a  neglected  state,  and  seem  to  weep  for  all  around  them 
and  for  their  own  fate  also,  perhaps.  One  portrait  is 
more  beautiful  than  the  others.  It  is  one  of  Marie 
Lcczinska,  by  Vanloo.  There  the  mother-in-law  of  Louis 
X\',  one  of  the  royal  chatelains  of  Chambord,  watches 
over  the  kingdom  of  her  exile,  from  behind  a  gilded 
frame  whose  age  has  turned  it  almost  black. 

And  now  we  are  once  more  in  the  courtyard  where  the 
guardian  of  the  place  is  pacing  up  and  down  over  the 
sandy  pavement.  And  we  leave  him  behind  us,  with 
the  visions  of  Franqois  I,  Frangois  II,  Plenri  II,  Louis 
XIV,  Maurice  de  Sa.\e,  Berthier  de  Wagram,  Henri  V. 
We  leave  him  behind,  with  Chambord  and  with  its  glori- 
ous but  faded  past. 

"I  wonder  what  will  become  of  it  after  the  death  of  the 
present  owners,"  said  the  Comte,  as  we  reached  our  little 
hotel  with  its  homely  rooms  and  its  window  curtains  of 
white  piquet. 

"Yes,  what  will  become  of  it?"  I  added.  And  even  as 
we  asked  the  question  the  answer  seemed  to  come  from 
nature,  or  from  Heaven.  For  a  sudden  flash  of  light- 
ning rent  the  sky  and  seemed  to  dash  down  upon  the 
chateau  as  if  it  would  strike  it  from  existence.  The 
great  phantom  appeared  once  more  before  us  in  the 
ghastly  light,  and  a  great  rumbling  clap  of  thunder  made 
us  shudder  and  draw  away,  as  the  storm  burst  over  our 
heads. 

The  lightning  vanished,  and  all  was  thrown  into  greater 
darkness  than  before. 

"Yes,  what  will  become  of  Chambord?"  wc  both  whis- 
pered, as  all  grew  quiet.  And  the  storm  also  faded  away, 
and  died  with  the  first  hour  of  the  night. 


f .  Y 


Y .  Y 


CHAPTER   IV 

BLOIS 

PART  I 

We  arose  early  on  the  morning  of  our  third  day  at 
Chambord  to  say  good-bye  to  the  pile  of  history-laden 
stones  which  had  been  towering  before  us,  like  some 
huge  phantom  of  the  past.  Taking  the  avenue  which  led 
through  the  forest  upon  the  other  side  of  the  chateau,  we 
pursued  our  way  toward  the  high-road  to  Blois.  It  is  this 
avenue  which  is  to  be  seen  from  the  roofs  of  the  chateau, 
cutting  a  long  line  that  may  be  clearly  defined  through 
the  heavy  foliage.  It  forms  an  endless  vista  upon  either 
side  of  Chambord,  and  seems  not  unlike  the  backbone  of 
the  great  forest  itself. 

As  we  pursued  our  way  over  the  stones  and  gravel,  we 
were  almost  tempted  to  retrace  our  steps  to  the  place 
from  which  we  had  started,  the  Saturday  before.  An 
inclination  which  was  almost  irresistible  tempted  us  to 
repeat  that  walk  which  had  excited  so  much  admiration 
from  us.  There  were  brought  back  to  us  the  impressions 
of  a  few  days  before,  that  had  been  emphasized  at  sunset 
by  the  pointed  lantern  and  the  ornamented  chimney  tops 
of  Chambord,  now  behind  us. 

A  little  bridge,  of  crumbling  stones,  faded  away,  and 
was  lost  in  a  confused  haze,  with  the  cottages  and  build- 
ings of  the  tiny  town  beside  the  chateau.  The  river,  now 
so  low  that  it  was  little  more  than  a  stream,  sank  deep  be- 
neath its  mossy  banks     The  reflections  of  the  castle  van- 


B  I,  O  1  S 

ished  with  it,  and  the  trees  shut  in  a  small,  square  picture 
in  which  the  chateau  occupied  the  chief  position.    Wearied 
of  the  saddening  aspect  of    the  roofs  and  ever  fadinjj 
"campanile"  behind  us,  we  turned  from  the  beaten  track 
of  fallen  kings  and  courts  of  France,  this  avenue  where, 
not  long  ago,  the  cracking  whips  and  the  shouts  of  postil- 
ions announced    the    arrival    of    some   courtier   to    the 
chateau,  this  avenue  which  to-day  is  used  but  once  a  year 
by  its  present  master,  the  Due  de  Parme.     Leaving  the 
road,  we  wandered  through  the  paths  and  alleys  of  the 
park.      The   faint  mist  of  the  summer  morning  lent  a 
mystic  charm  to  the  foliage,  around  and  overhead.     The 
trees  and  bushes  met  in  some  places,  to  form  a  canopy  of 
green  leaves.     Tiny  vistas  caught  the  eye  at  a  distance, 
and  near  at  hand,  others  still  distracted  the  attention  in  a 
series  of  ever  changing  pictures.      The  mossy  bed  on 
which  we  walked  was  strewn  with  flowers.     The  trunks 
of  trees  were  often  covered  by  a  thin  coat  of  ivy,  which 
grew  everywhere  in  profusion.     The  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  clear  note  of  a  skylark,  high  above  the  head. 
One  could  almost  realize  the  winged  forms  of  a  fairy 
host,  flitting  hither  and  thither  amid  the  trees  and  flowers. 
The  deep  bay  of  a  hound  sounded  afar  off,  and  then 
,  nearer.     The  noise  of  cracking  branches  and  of  rustling 
leaves  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  horses'  footsteps  and 
the  winding  of  a  hunter's  horn.     Suddenly  a  blast  of 
cold  air  blew  against  our  startled  faces,  and  from  the 
trees  emerged  a  spectral  huntsman,  dressed  in  black,  rid- 
ing madly  a  jet  black  steed  and  followed  by  a  pack  of 
hounds,  black  also.     The  ghostly  cavalcade  covered  the 
open  space  and  disappeared  around  the  angle  of  an  alley, 
before  we  knew  whether  it  was  a  reality  or  not.    Could  it 
have  been  but  a  passing  picture  of  the  mind,  or  had  we 
unconsciously  wandered  through  that  part  of  the  forest 
which  is  haunted  by  the  famous  Thibault  de  Champagne, 
called  "The  Cheat"'     The  Solognots  know  it  well,  for  it 
8i 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

is  covered  by  the  long  green  grass  they  call  "I'herbe  qui 
6gare" — meaning  the  grass  which  misleads  unwary 
travelers  through  this  haunted  spot.  The  legend  runs 
that  the  spectral  huntsman  is  to  be  seen  returning,  early 
in  the  morning,  from  the  pavilion  of  Montfrault  to  the 
ruins  of  Bury.  Perhaps,  after  all,  we  had  seen  the  vision 
so  much  spoken  of,  but  which  no  Solognot  had  ever 
cared  to  verify  for  himself.  And  yet,  who  knows 
whether  we  had  not  been  allowing  our  imaginations  to 
form  poetic  visions  in  these  fairy-like  surroundings? 

By  and  by,  the  forest  and  its  scenes  had  given  place  to 
open  country,  fields  and  lanes.  Chambord  had  disap- 
peared, and  we  had  laid  aside  its  legends,  its  history,  and 
its  wonders  of  architecture,  to  think  of  Blois,  which  was 
before  us,  and  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  details  of  that 
central  figure  in  this  unrivaled  group  of  royal  monu- 
ments. A  walk  of  some  six  or  eight  miles,  broken  here 
and  there  by  a  picturesque  village,  with  roses  hanging 
from  the  cottage  walls,  brought  us,  after  a  steep  incline, 
/  to  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 

Here  the  road  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  to  follow  for  a 
hundred  miles  this  wonderful  river,  whose  banks  are  for- 
tified by  a  long  line  of  dikes  crowned  by  the  winding 
road.  Across  the  river,  an  almost  endless  row  of  clipped 
linden  trees,  a  white  wall  (nearly  brown  with  age),  and  a 
long  slate  roof  among  the  green  told  us  that  we  were  not 
far  from  the  beautiful  Chateau  de  Mdnars.  In  the  seven- 
teenth century  this  chateau  was  inhabited  by  Stanislas 
Lesinski,  King  of  Poland,  and  the  father-in-law  of  Louis 
XV.  Madame  de  Pompadour  rebuilt  it,  as  it  stands 
to-day,  and  lived  in  it  for  some  time  with  her  brother, 
the  Marquis  Poisson  de  Marigny.  As  might  be  expected, 
Louis  XV  paid  all  the  bills,  which  was  no  light  obliga- 
tion even  for  him  to  meet,  for  both  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour and  her  brother  had  exquisite  taste,  which  they  did 
not  hesitate  to  satisfy  at  the  expense  of  the  king.  Dur- 
82 


BLOIS 

inp  the  revolution,  however,  the  chateau  was  sold;  but  it 
was  bouKht  finally  by  the  Due  do  Hellune.  During  his 
ownership  of  M<5nars  the  episode  took  place  on  which 
Scribe  presumably  founded  his  social  drama  "Malheurs 
d'un  Amant  Heurcux."  The  chateau  has  since  been 
owned  respectively  by  the  Prince  Joseph  de  Chimay,  the 
Princesse  de  BcaulTremont,  and  lastly  by  M.  Vatel,  an 
"entrepreneur  de  construction." 

Some  distance  further  on  it  appeared  in  full  \-iew— a 
simple  but  exceedingly  good  bit  of  Louis  XV  architecture. 
The  long,  flat  faqade,  the  two  wings,  the  flower-grown 
terraces,  reaching  almost  to  the  river's  edge,  and  a  little 
classic  summerhouse  with  Ionic  columns,  all  blended 
gracefully  in  the  mist.  The  whole  scene,  of  a  deep  green 
relieved  only  by  the  white  stone  of  the  buildings  and 
statues,  made  one  think  of  one's  ideals  of  French 
chateaux,  as  depicted  in  a  stage  setting,  or  upon  some 
noted  canvas. 

And  still  the  road-crowned  dike  wound  on  and  on,  fol- 
lowing the  snake-like  curves  and  turnings  of  the  river  to 
which  it  owes  its  "raison  d'etre."  Forests,  chateaux, 
villas,  appeared  in  the  distance,  became  momentary 
realities  and  faded  away  behind  us.  The  third  shower  of 
the  morning  broke  over  our  heads,  to  be  succeeded 
shortly  by  the  ever  recurring  sunshine,  whose  intensity 
now  announced  it  to  be  not  far  from  midday.  An  old 
stone  bridge  with  enlarging  arches  appeared  in  view, 
stretching  across  the  river.  The  central  arch,  which  was 
much  wider  than  the  others,  culminated  in  a  carved 
pedestal  surmounted  by  an  iron  cross.  Green  fields  and 
trees  and  country  scenes  gave  place  to  plaster  houses  and 
paved  streets.  A  large  town  appeared  upon  the  opposite 
bank,  with  countless  slate  roofs  growing  up  the  hill,  like 
so  many  mushrooms  that  were  black  instead  of  white,  by 
some  sad  chance.  The  whole  was  crowned  by  a  larger 
mass  of  slate  than  those  below.  This  must  then  be  the 
83 


.    TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  i 


T .  T 


V ,  y 


chateau  which  we  had  walked  so  far  to  see,  and  yet  there 
was  but  little  in  the  unshapely  mass  to  excite  either 
enthusiasm  or  artistic  admiration.  We  turned  to  cross 
the  river,  and  our  little  journey  of  the  morning  was  at  an 
end.  Blois  had  been  reached,  and  we  realized  that  the 
first  view  of  this  famous  town  was  neither  the  most 
artistic  nor  the  most  attractive. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  the  bridge,  however,  is  more 
effective.  To  the  right  and  left  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Loire  run,  turn,  and  twist  between  two  verdant  banks  of 
green.  Islands  and  small  flats  of  yellow  sand  break  the 
surface  of  the  river  here  and  there,  making  its  naviga- 
tion difficult,  if  not  impossible.  Directly  in  front  the 
decline  of  the  bridge  is  checked  in  its  downward  course 
by  a  massive  flight  of  steps  which  rises  some  distance 
beyond,  but  whose  angle  is  exaggerated  bj^  the  sloping  of 
the  bridge.  The  steps  lead  to  the  upper  portion  of  the  city, 
where  roads  and  gardens  are  closely  pressed  by  neat 
looking  houses  behind  them.  The  scene  before  us 
was  varied  by  the  crowds  of  French  men  and  women, 
moving  about  in  their  odd  costumes,  and  indulging  in 
exclamations  and  movements  almost  unknown  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon.  The  centre  of  the  place,  for  so  this  por- 
tion of  the  road  seemed  to  be,  was  occupied  by  a  monu- 
mental statue  of  indifferent  taste.  The  figure  is  that  of 
Denis  Papin,  the  discoverer  of  the  boiling  point  of 
water. 

The  history  of  the  bridge  itself  is  rather  interesting, 
for  it  was  the  first  of  its  kind  which  was  built  under 
Louis  XV.  The  work  was  begun  in  1719,  by  an  architect 
named  Gabriel,  and  the  eleventh  arch  was  completed  in 
1724.  In  the  year  ninety-three  of  the  same  century  came 
the  revolution.  The  insurgents  set  upon  the  bridge 
and  endeavored  to  destroy  it,  because  it  had  been  built 
by  the  king.  But  happily  for  the  bridge,  as  well  as  for 
the  city  of  Blois,  it  was  too  strong  to  suffer  much  damage, 
84 


i .  V 


T ,  X 


T .  y 


y .  y 


H  LOIS 


Y .  i 


V .  V 


t/i 


V .  V 


and  after  the  revolution,  royal  and  imperial  camafjes  <.nce 
more  passed  over  the  bridge,  which   Louis  XV  had  bu.lt 
to  reach  the  chateau.     In   1804   Monsieur  de  Corbi^ny. 
••Pr<5fef  of  Blois.  had  it  repaired,  under  Napoleon,  and 
a  slab  bearing  its  history  was  placed  on  the  stone  pedestal 
in  its  centre. 
^    A  short  turn  to  the  left  brought  us  to  our  hotel,  a  pub- 
lic house  whose  pretensions  to  excellence  in  all  things 
were  f.>und,  on  investigation,  to  be  good— for  nothing. 
The  day  was  ver>'  warm,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  din- 
in-room  would  have  put  even  that  of  the  kitchen   to 
shame.     It  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  examples  of  the 
worst  type  of  French  people.     Every  one  seemed  very 
fit       Every  one  seemed  unusually  warm.      Everybody 
was  drinking  a  great  deal  of  "vin  rouge,"  gobbling  up 
an  impossible  dejeuner  and  talking  excitedly  at  the  top  of 
tlieir  voices,  a  form  of  amusement    which  they  accom- 
panied bv  the  most  violent  gesticulations.     A  large,  fat 
child— fatter  than  any  one  else  in  the  room,  and  whom  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  squeeze  into  the  largest  of 
hogsheads— was  amusing  herself  by  throwing  her  arms 
about  the  gentlemen's  necks  and  trj-ing  to  embrace  thcra. 
She    seemed     peculiady    persistent    in    her     advances, 
although  they  were,  strangely  enough,  unreciprocated. 
My  companion   and  I  were  very  happy  to  breathe  the 
somewhat  variegated  air  of  a  barber's  shop  later,  and 
still  happier  to  gain  the  road  to  the  chateau,  after  haviiig 
sufTered  under  the  merciless  scissors  of  the  "coiffeur  de 

As  all  who  have  been  to  Blois  know,  the  chateau  first  ap- 
pears rising  high  above  the  street.  Numberless  arched 
balconies  lined  with  colored  frescoes  of  the  Renaissance, 
succeed  each  other  in  a  double  row,  not  unlike  the  tiers 
of  boxes  at  some  great  opera  house.  Here  and  there  a 
beautifully  car^•cd  bow-window,  with  stone  lace-work, 
projects  from  the  broken  surface  of   the  walls,  while  a 


i .  T 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


quantity  of  grinning  gargoyles  crane  out  their  long  necks, 
and  peer  down  upon  the  intruder  from  the  hea\'y  cornice. 
The  Italian  Renaissance  is  a  strong  clement  in  the  archi- 
^tecture  of  this  portion  of  the  chateau,  and  the  delicately 
'  chiseled  pilasters,  everywhere  dividing  the  balconies  and 
windows,  are  among  its  chief  characteristics.  The  roof 
especially  savors  of  the  Italian,  and  it  is  flatter  than  those 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  in  France.  It  projects  over 
the  great  cornice,  not  unlike  a  huge  villa,  and  is  sup- 
ported by  shortened  columns,  forming  a  long  upper 
balcony.  The  roof  is  broken  by  a  Renaissance  window 
and  several  massive  ornamented  chimneys,  which  pierce 
its  surface  irregularly,  like  seeds  which  have  just 
sprouted  in  a  flower  bed.  The  whole  effect  is  imposing 
and  artistic,  beautiful  in  detail  rather  than  in  the 
ensemble,  which  is  irregular  and  often  lacking  in 
symmetry. 

A  flight  of  steps,  a  steep  avenue,  leading  around  the 
massive  foundations  of  the  wing  of  Francois  I,  and 
an  open  place,  bring  one  face  to  face  with  what  is  per- 
haps the  most  beautiful  facade  of  the  whole  chateau,  that 
of  Louis  XII.  This  wonderful  wing,  which  takes  its 
name  from  its  founder  and  which  forms  a  complete 
chateau  in  itself,  is  but  one  side  of  a  court  whose  four 
portions  boast  as  many  styles  of  architecture,  and  whose 
character  is  unrivaled  in  France.  The  beauty  of  the 
whole  effect  of  this  court  is  indescribable.  Indeed,  it 
would  afford  a  complete  study  of  perfection  in  archi- 
tectural detail.  From  the  outside,  the  pinnacle-capped 
windows,  the  red  and  black  brick  walls,  culminating  in 
the  elaborate  carving  and  the  "statue  equestre"  of  Louis 
XII,  are  a  soft  and  happy  mdlange  of  exquisite  details. 
The  fleur-de-lis,  appearing  everywhere,  and  the  crowned 
porcupine  (the  sign  of  Louis  XII),  are  characteristic 
ornaments  in  this  fagade.  The  gentle  tones  of  color,  the 
genius  in  the  proportions,  the  master  hand  which  is 
86 


B  L  O  I S 


felt  at  ever}'  point,  transport  the  spectator  and  silence 
the  critic.  Indeed,  the  first  view  of  this  fa(;adc  is  a 
wonderful  introduction  to  the  great  splendor  of  the 
Chateau  of  Blois. 

Passing  through  the  deeply  chiseled  archway,  the 
_  visitor  finds  himself  suddenly  in  the  great  court  of  the 
chateau.  At  the  first  view  the  sight  seems  difficult  to 
realize.  It  appears  rather  like  the  massive  "mise-en- 
scfene"  to  some  opera  than  the  actual  setting  of  the 
history  of  France;  and  we  wait,  almost  expecting  the 
tenor  to  spring  from  some  low  window  upon  the  right, 
and  to  hold  us  entranced  by  an  impassioned  love  song. 
Again  it  is  like  the  square  of  an  enchanted  city  whose 
four  palaces  stand  before  us,  all  distinctly  different  and 
yet  all  blending  into  a  raan'elous  ensemble.  Yes,  it  is 
not  a  dream  but  a  grand  reality,  the  far-famed  court  of 
the  Chateau  de  Blois,  the  scene  of  so  many  pageants  and 
displays  in  the  history  of  France,  this  incomparable  spot 
where  are  clustered  such  marvels  of  the  Renaissance. 
Behind  and  to  the  right  are  the  interior  facades  of  the 
two  wings  that  are  seen  from  without,  and  in  admiring 
the  unbounded  richness^  the  perfect  taste,  and  the 
extraordinar>'  beauty  of  both,  it  is  well-nigh  impossible  to 
lay  the  laurel  wreath  upon  the  steps  of  the  Francois  I 
wing  and  yet  refrain  from  doing  likewise  to  that  of  Louis 
XII.  A  low  cloister  stretches  along  the  entire  length  of 
this  last  fa(;ade,  making  a  delicate  foundation  to  the 
beautiful  work  above.  It  is  in  the  transition  period,  or 
that  prior  to  the  Italian  Renaissance.  The  high  slate , 
roof,  broken  by  five  richly  ornamented  windows  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  hea\'y  stone  railing,  is  higher  even  than 
the  two  stories  below  it.  Yet  the  lines  and  proportions 
are  so  perfect  that  they  form  an  ensemble  more  pleasing 
to  the  eye,  if  anything,  than  the  beauties  of  the  Francois 
I  wing,  beside  it.  A  square  tower  of  brick  and  stone 
(like  all  of  the  Louis  XI  and  Louis  XII  portions  of  Blois) 
S7 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN    TOURAINE 


divides  this  cloister  from  another  upon  the  left.  The 
columns  are  foreshortened  and  extremely  simple  in  the 
cloister  of  Louis  XI;  but  in  that  of  Louis  XII  they  are 
richly  carved.  They  are  alternated,  round  and  square, 
the  round  ones  being  studded  with  fleur-de-lis. 

The  chapel  of  Louis  XI,  upon  the  left,  is  half  hidden, 
from  where  we  stand,  by  the  cloister  and  the  rather  heavy 
work  above  it.  A  beautiful  bit  of  stone  detail,  with  a 
huge  gargoyle  at  the  climax  of  a  corner  buttress,  tempts 
one  to  peer  around  still  further,  to  be  rewarded  by  a 
large  gothic  window  over  the  door  of  the  chapel.  The 
top  to  the  door  itself  is  a  fine  bit  of  carved  stonework 
and  extends  in  a  point  up  against  that  of  the  window. 
It  bears  the  letters  L  and  A,  with  the  escutcheons  of 
Louis  and  Anne,  surmounted  by  the  royal  crown  of 
France.  Within,  the  chapel  is  rich  in  frescoes,  copied 
after  those  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  effect  outside 
is  not  unlike  that  of  the  famous  Sainte-Chapelle  in  Paris, 
with  its  laceworked  spire,  rising  against  the  sky  from  the 
top  of  the  pointed  roof.  The  chapel  and  the  rest  of  this 
wing  were  the  work  of  Louis  XI,  and  are  the  oldest  parts 
of  the  chateau,  after  the  "Salle  des  Etats"  opposite. 

The  Louis  XII  wing  forms  an  harmonious  second  link, 
in  this  marvelous  sequence  of  architectural  studies.  The 
styles  of  these  two  are  so  much  alike  as  to  blend  almost 
into  one,  at  the  first  glance;  but  we  soon  notice  the  more 
graceful  and  elaborate  finish  of  the  details.  The  carving 
of  the  windows  assumes  the  most  exquisite  and  artistic 
convolutions.  The  ornaments  and  accessories  of  the 
two  towers  show,  with  the  long  wing  between  them,  the 
superiority  and  advance  of  this  period  over  that  of 
Louis  XI. 

I  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  court,  and  had 
turned  about  to  take  in,  to  their  fullest  extent,  the 
beauty  of  the  buildings  just  described.  I  must  have  lost 
myself    in  the   enchantment    of    their  lines,   for  I   was 


B  L  O I  S 

aroused  from  my  dreams  and  criticisms  by  my  friend  the 
Comte,  who  touched  my  arm,  and  said: 

"Let  us  go  into  this  portion  of  the  chateau,  before 
even  looking  at  the  outside  of  the  rest  of  it.  Let  us  dip 
into  the  life  and  the  surroundings  of  Louis  XII  and  of 
Anne  de  Bretagne,  and  fdl  our  minds  with  more  knowl- 
edge of  their  own  period,  before  passing  on  to  the  home 
of  Francois  I  and  of  Catherine  de  Medici." 

"You  are  right,"  I  replied.  "I  always  like  to  go  to 
the  bottom  of  one  thing,  or  one  monument,  if  it  happens 
to  be  one,  before  going  to  another.  It  seems  more  of 
a  duty  than  a  pleasure,  if  one  is  hurried  along  from  one 
set  of  thoughts,  or  the  masses  of  historical  stones  which 
produce  them,  to  the  next,  without  time  to  sit  down  and 
to  study  something  about  them.  Whereas,  if  one  is  only 
permitted  to  wander  peacefully  about,  to  enjoy  those 
things  which  most  appeal  to  the  senses,  and  to  pick  up 
something  of  the  time-laden  air  that  hangs  about  and 
lurks  in  dusty  corners,  a  feeling  of  charm  and  poetry 
unconsciously  takes  hold  of  one.  To-day,  especially,  I 
feel  in  just  such  a  mood,  and  as  I  am  aware  that  you 
know  as  much  of  Blois  as  many  of  these  guides,  we  will 
dispense  with  them,  and  you  shall  tell  me  of  Louis  XII 
and  his  portion  of  Blois." 

"Eh  bien,"  said  the  Comte,  delighted  at  my  proposal, 
"we  are  now  in  the  guard  chamber  of  Anne  de  Bretagne. 
I  will  not  slight  your  French  history  by  telling  you  that 
she  was  the  wife  of  Louis  XII.  See  how  triste  and 
gloomy  these  state  apartments  are.  I  have  always  won- 
dered why  they  have  never  cut  some  windows  upon  the 
side  of  the  cloisters  here;  these  seem  so  small  and  so 
insuflBcient.  There  is  a  very  good  example  of  those 
wonderful  chimney-pieces,  which  have  lent  their  fame 
and  beauty  to  the  chateau."  And  the  Comte  pointed 
out  an  elaborate  specimen.  "See  with  what  art  and 
taste  the  richness  of  the  carving  is  still  kept  delicate 
89 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


V ,  T 


T .  T 


r.Y 


i .  i 


and  not  allowed  to  grow  too  heavy.  There  are  the 
ermine  of  Anne  and  the  porcupine  of  Louis.  They  are 
everywhere  in  the  architecture  of  their  epoch,  just  as  the 
salamander  and  the  swan  pierced  with  a  dagger,  are  the 
signs  of  Francois  and  of  Claude.  Everything  here  is  in 
the  period  before  theirs, — the  transition  period  between 
the  Mediasval  and  the  Renaissance.  The  Renaissance  is 
here  in  the  wing  upon  our  right,  and  the  Mediccval  we 
shall  see  to-morrow  at  Chaumont. " 

"And  here  is  the  death  chamber  of  Anne  de  Bretagne, " 
said  L  "I  have  often  seen  it  in  pictures  and  longed  to  be 
here.  What  an  odd  little  door,  between  these  two  rooms! 
I  suppose  it  was  necessary  to  protect  the  queen  from  the 
chance  gaze  of  her  guards  while  at  her  toilette.  You 
seem  rather  silent  upon  this  subject.  I  think  I  can  tell 
you  some  things  which  you  do  not  know,  after  all.  The 
queen  died  in  this  room  on  the  9th  of  Januar)',  1514,  and 
the  king  was  so  overcome  with  grief  that  he  left  Blois 
and  married  an  English  princess,  according  to  history. 
There  were  two  ways  for  the  dead  queen  Anne  to  have 
regarded  his  conduct,  if  they  ever  met  again  after  this 
life, — one,  as  a  compliment,  that  life  was  so  sad  without 
a  wife  that  he  wished  to  replace  her  charms  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  then  another,  as  a  slight  to  her  royal 
memory.  They  say,  however,  that  Louis  married  the 
second  time  for  political  reasons  only,  so  perhaps  his  grief 
was  sincere,  after  all." 

"Dieu!  que  vous  vous  lancez, "  cried  the  Comte. 
"You  are  always  giving  me  these  surprises,  and  I  expect 
there  will  be  little  I  can  tell  you  about  Blois  that  you  do 
not  know  already.  Louis  XII  began  his  work  here  in 
1501.  Come  now,  acknowledge  that  you  did  not  know 
that,"  and  the  Comte's  eyes  twinkled  with  merriment. 
"When  it  was  finished,  the  chateau  was  much  better  off 
than  it  is  to-day,  though  only  half  as  large,  for  it  had  for- 
ests and  parks  about  it,  instead  of  a  bare-looking  town, 
90 


BLOIS 


->       ->   liV     with  bad  hotels  and  coiffeurs  in  it.     There  were  some 

4  1  4  C^  Italian  gardens,  in  those  days,  on  the  side  of  Ihe  river,  I 
believe;  and  it  is  said  that  they  were  the  most  beautiful 
ot  their  time.  They  ought  certainly  to  have  been,  for 
the  king  rewarded  his  head  gardener,  Passello,  by  giving 
him  the  Chateau  Gaillard.  The  only  restriction  he 
imposed  upon  the  gift  was  that  he  was  to  receive  a  bou- 
quet of  orange  blossoms  every  year  from  the  orange 
trees,  which  were  the  first  ones  introduced  into  France. 
They  were  brought  from  Italy,  and  probably  had  more 
influence  than  we  imagine  upon  the  introduction  of  the 
.     „  ,    Italian  Renaissance.     The  orange  trees  have  retained  the 

*A*        V   g     affection  of  my  fickle  countrymen  longer  than  the  country 
•  "     from   whence    they  came;    for   indeed  what   would  the 

gardens  of  France  be  to-day  without  these  almost  uni- 
versal adjuncts?" 

We  had  wandered  out  to  the  court  again,  while  the 
Comte  was  speaking,  and  had  come  into  full  view  of  the 
Francois  I  wing.  From  the  last  arch  of  the  cloister, 
where  we  stood,  still  gazing  at  a  distance,  perhaps  the 
most  artistic  view  of  the  ensemble  is  to  be  obtained. 
The  yellow  tinted  stone  is  disappointing  to  the  eye,  and 
in  strange  contrast  to  the  colors  of  the  brick  and  stone 
around  it  and  on  the  other  side.  But  the  grace  of  the 
proportions,  the  delicacy  of  the  pilasters  covering  the 
walls  and  framing  the  windows,  the  extraordinary  rich- 
' '  ness  of  the  massive  cornice,  where  the  long  gargoyles  hang 
over  all  and  cast  a  shadow,  here  and  there,  upon  the  white : 
all  these  combine  to  cause  one  to  forget  criticism  and  to 
indulge  in  almost  extravagant  praise.  The  salamander 
surmounted  by  its  royal  crown  adorns  the  nude  surfaces 
c.f  the  walls,  and  changes  them  into  framed  pictures  of 
stone.  In  the  centre  of  all  bursts  forth  the  staircase 
which  has  delighted  an  admiring  world  for  so  many  cen- 
.--   1/  #     ti'ries,    and    which   now    blooms    fairer    than   ever,   the 

V       T    g     climax   of    the    Renaissance.      Here,    indeed,  is   every 


i .  i 


r .  i 


i ,  X 


f .  V 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


artistic  longing  of  the  French  temperament  satisfied. 
Here  the  genius  of  a  taste-gifted  race  has  forced  its  chisel, 
with  a  master  hand,  into  the  soft  and  shadow-covered 
stone,  to  create  a  chef  d'oeuvre  of  the  art  of  architecture. 
Here  richness  and  delicacy  go  hand  in  hand,  mounting 
the  ever-winding  stair  to  drop  their  fairest  jewels  upon 
each  step,  and  to  vie  with  one  another  in  their  gifts. 
Detail  and  ensemble  meet  one  another  in  a  harmony  so 
seldom  found  that  it  adds  a  tenfold  charm.  Shades  and 
shadows  blend  in  a  softening  tone,  and  throw  a  cloak  of 
beauty  over  something  which  is  more  than  our  own  eyes 
at  first  appreciate. 

As  we  look  at  the  staircase  of  Blois,  framed  by  the  two 
columns  of  the  cloister,  darkened  by  heavy  shadows,  it 
seems  to  fascinate  the  whole  being  as  only  perfec- 
tion and  beauty  have  the  power  to  do.  And  we  are 
tempted  to  say:  "Why  has  the  New  World  left  so  long 
untouched  a  design  and  an  inspiration  that  deserve  to 
find  reproductions  in  a  hundred  forms  and  combinations? 
Why,  when  it  has  such  marvelous  examples  and  incen- 
tives in  France  and  in  the  whole  of  Europe,  has  it  not 
more  improved  such  opportunities?" 

"You  must  not  go  in  there  yet,"  said  the  Comte,  point- 
ing to  the  staircase.  "You  must  allow  the  beauty  of  that 
wonderful  piece  of  architecture  to  dawn  more  fully  upon 
you,  and  to  sink  deeper  into  your  mind,  before  entering 
the  door  which  leads  to  the  scenes  of  history  within.  We 
will  cross  the  court  and  examine  the  most  recent  portion 
of  the  chateau,  the  last  side  of  this  inimitable  quadri- 
lateral. There  it  is,  as  you  see,  a  cold  and  pure  example 
of  Louis  Xni's  period.  It  was  built  by  Gaston  d'Orleans, 
who  was  exiled  to  Blois  for  many  years,  and  who  died 
in  1660.  His  heart,  by  the  way,  is  in  the  Jesuit  Fathers' 
church  of  Blois. 

"He  had  always  intended  to  tear  down  the  rest  of  the 
chateau  and  to  rebuild  it  all  in  the  style  of  this  wing; 
92 


riii;  >^  lAiu*  A^^i..    tii\ri.Ai     in.   i;i.>>i: 


B  L  O  I  S 

but,  mercifully  for  those  who  have  lived  since,  his  death 
prevented  him  from  destroying  these  stones,  which  have 
boon  such  a  standard  of  beauty  in  architecture  ever 
since. " 

"What  a  contrast,"  said  I,  "to  the  beauty  of  the  archi- 
tecture surrounding  it!  How  could  any  one  have  been 
so  dead  to  artistic  value  as  to  think  of  destroying  such 
creations  as  that  staircase,  or  the  wing  behind  us?" 

"You  know  what  the  poet  says,  do  you  not?"  said  the 
Comte. 

'Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead. 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said: 
"This  is  my  own,  my  native  land"  '? 

Gaston  d'Orleans  might  have  paraphrased : 

'There  breathes  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said: 
"This  is  indeed  true,  noble  art, 
And  from  its  lines  I  may  not  part."  ' 

But  he  did  not,  as  you  see.  Let  us  go  inside,  and  look 
at  the  great  staircase,  reaching  to  the  heavily  ornamented 
roof.  It  is  a  noble  work,  one  cannot  deny  the  fact;  but 
what  a  contrast  to  its  neighbors!"  And  the  Comte  shook 
his  head  sadly,  while  I  bowed  a  silent  assent. 

Turning  from  the  rather  overshadowed  beauties  of 
this  massive  wing,  we  crossed  once  more  the  sandy  court, 
and  mounted  the  winding  staircase. 

Here,  in  the  days  of  Claude,  the  wife  of  Francois 
I,  and  in  those  of  the  famous  Catherine  de  Medici, 
the  soldiers  and  officers  of  the  court  stood  on  its 
many  winding  balconies,  outside  the  ever-winding 
stairs,  to  welcome  their  king  and  queen.  Here,  royal 
persons  of  histor}*,  whose  names  stand  out  in  bas-relief 
against  centuries  of  time,  wound  their  way,  in  state 
processions,  to  their  apartments  above.  Here  they 
gathered  in  the  morning,  in  the  evening,  for  a  casual 

9.^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T ,  T 


r .  T 


t.t 


Y .  i 


meeting,  two  or  three,  or  for  the  secret  intrigue,  which 
ended  frequently  in  the  death  of  those  concerned.  The 
stones  are  worn  by  historic  feet,  whose  masters  have  long 
since  passed  away,  but  who  live  to-day  as  vividly  as  if 
they  were  still  young,  still  powerful,  still  human  and  still 
wicked.  Ah,  beautifully  ornamented  stones,  carved  in 
all  the  richness,  the  art,  the  taste  that  the  Renaissance 
could  bring,  what  a  tale  you  have  to  tell !  How  many  an 
historian  would  give  his  fortune,  only  to  speak  with  you 
for  one  short  hour;  how  many  men  would  give  their 
lives  to  know  one-half  of  all  you  have  there,  lingering  in 
your  dusty  corners!  Truly,  this  is  a  marvelous  staircase. 
Its  panels,  carved  in  such  delicate  tracery  and  lacework 
that  the  finger  nail  might  almost  break  its  symmetry;  its 
groined  roof,  with  everywhere  the  salamander  and  the 
ermine  holding  a  royal  crown;  its  intricately  chiseled 
shaft,  the  backbone  of  it  all,  which  is  the  best  and  which 
the  least  of  these?  Each  seems  to  outweigh  the  others 
in  beauty,  and  yet  there  is  always  something  still  more 
beautiful  to  please  the  eye  until  the  topmost  stair  is 
reached. 

The  door  stands  open  for  us  to  enter  the  apartments 
of  the  king  and  queen.  Our  smiling  guide  stands  waiting 
for  us,  with  her  great  bunch  of  keys  jingling  against  one 
another,  her  youthful  cheek  red  with  the  exertion  of  our 
ascent.  And  yet  we  linger  on  the  last  step,  about  to  go 
and  yet  loath  to  leave  these  wonderful  surroundings. 

"Why  should  we  not  stay  a  moment  longer,  now  that 
we  are  here?"  said  the  Comte,  laying  his  hand  on  my 
arm.  "It  is  not  often  that  the  traveler  has  a  chance  to 
stand  upon  the  great  staircase  of  Blois.  It  is  not 
often  that  one  looks  upon  a  scene  so  beautiful,  so  perfect 
as  the  one  in  this  small  area  of  scarce  an  acre." 

We  had  come  a  long  way  and  waited  many  years  for 
this  view.  We  had  thought  of  it,  often,  I  dare  not  say 
how  often,  and  gazed  at  it  in  pictures.    We  had  imagined 

94 

i 


i .  T 


T ,  r 


V .  T 


4.Y 


HLOIS 


Y .  Y 


V .  V 


r .  T 


V .  T 


the  time  that  was  now  here.  The  picture  was  no  longer 
a  picture,  but  a  reality.  Why  not  keep  it  for  a  moment 
more,  now  that  it  was  here? 

The  Corate,  anticipating  my  desire,  took  my  arm  and 
leaned  over  the  heavy  stonework  of  the  topmost  balcony 
in  silent  contemplation. 

"Look  down  at  the  wonderful  details  of  these  bal- 
conies," he  said,  at  last,  "winding,  in  their  long  line, 
slowly  up  to  where  we  stand.  From  below,  they  seem 
but  the  railings  of  the  staircase.  And  see  how  subtly  the 
architect  has  inserted  them  almost  into  the  thickness  of 
the  walls,  so  broken  and  so  cut  in  countless  arches, 
niches,  crevices,  that  they  seem  but  an  elaborately  orna- 
mental network  of  stone  pilasters. 

"How  many  kings  and  queens  of  France,  how  many 
courtiers,  statesmen,  satellites  of  Royalty  and  royal  favor, 
have  stood  on  the  stones  beneath  our  feet  and  looked 
down  upon  the  very  traceries  and  carvings  which  we  are 
admiring  this  morning!  Suns  have  set  and  moons  have 
risen  upon  their  passions,  their  wrongs,  watching  their 
evil  lives  rising  and  falling,  often  as  fleeting  as  the  sun 
itself.  And  there  it  is  to-day,  still  lighting  the  stage  of 
time.  Really,  one  cannot  but  feel  that  this  is  hallowed 
ground."  And  the  Comte  looked  dreamily  off  toward 
the  broken  view  of  the  river  in  the  distance,  for  he  had 
been  speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  me. 

"Hallowed,  indeed,  I  suppose  it  is,"  I  replied.  "And 
yet  it  seems  almost  a  mockery  to  use  that  term,  when  one 
considers  the  acts  and  actors  of  those  times.  For  the 
very  air  you  call  so  hallowed  is  still  redolent  with  the 
blood  of  victims,  the  scent  of  immorality,  the  dissolute 
selfishness  of  the  courts  of  Franfois  I  and  of  Henry  HI, 
the  schemes  and  cruelty  of  Catherine  de  Medici  and  all 
about  her.  For  centuries  the  sun  has  been  shining  into 
those  windows;  but  it  has  nut  dried  the  stains  upon  the 
walls.     For  centuries  the  rain  and  wind  have  fallen  upon 

95 


^i 


i  .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


^a^a^a 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

the  roof  and  tried  to  purify  this  hallowed  atmosphere, 
and  yet  they  have  not  washed  away  those  stains,  that 
must  remain  as  long  as  the  mortar  holds  the  stones  of 
Blois  together  and  as  long  as  those  stains  retain  their 
particles.  Call  it  hallowed,  if  you  like,  this  ground, 
which  has  stayed  the  fall  of  many  a  murdered  victim  of 
intrigue  and  jealousy.  I  fear  all  history  must  be  so  then, 
and  that  we  must  take  those  men  who  figured  in  it  as 
they  came,  judging  them  only  for  their  good  and  for 
what  they  have  left  behind  them  for  the  benefit  of 
mankind." 

"Are  you  not  a  little  hard  upon  men  and  women  of  the 
past?"  said  the  Comte.  "  You  must  consider,  you  know, 
the  circumstances  under  which  they  lived.  Poor  human 
nature,  it  seems  to  me,  is  capable  of  only  so  much  resist- 
ance against  temptation,  just  as  it  is  capable  of  so  much 
work  and  power  of  comprehension.  I  think,  if  you  come 
to  a  careful  analysis  of  natural  desires,  you  will  find  the 
worst  people  of  the  world  to  be  in  almost  exact  propor- 
tion to  their  temptations.  We  are  all  too  fond  of  judging 
people  from  our  own  standpoints,  neglecting  to  consider 
that  perhaps  they  have  desires  and  temptations  unknown 
to  us  and  of  which  we  have  never  tasted  the  bitterness — 
desires  that  are  so  unknown  to  us  and  temptations  that 
are  so  strong  as  to  be  irresistible  to  the  strongest 
natures." 

"Then  I  take  it  that  you  consider  good  and  bad  as 
relative  terms?"  I  replied. 

"Hardly  that,"  said  my  friend,  his  face  lighting  up  as 
he  continued  in  a  strain  in  which  he  loved  so  well  to 
speak.  "I  am  considering  more  the  impossibility  of 
human  nature  judging  itself  properly,  with  its  limited 
data,  than  the  possibility  of  being  good  or  bad.  Our 
bodies  are  nothing  more  or  less  than  intricate,  natural 
machines  expressing  actions.  They  are  gauged  to  stand 
a  certain  amount  of  pressure,  and  after  that  they  must 


96 


^SB 


BLOIS 

give  way.  Temptation  is  the  pressure,  and  the  people 
who  are  called  bad  in  this  world,  arc  almost  always  those 
who  have  had  more  temptation  than  they  could  bear.  In 
the  same  way,  the  good  ones  are  more  often  those  who 
have  not  experienced  temptation,  and  less  often,  alas, 
those  whose  resistance  is  the  greatest.  A  great  many 
pi'ople  in  this  world  have  forces,  evil  forces,  working 
Uiion  them  to  such  an  extent  that  the  strongest  nature 
even  must  succumb.  The  world  calls  them  bad.  Others 
there  are,  who  have  never  had  even  the  semblance  of 
such  a  force  brought  to  bear  upon  them,  and  so  it  is  not 
surprising  that  they  never  give  way  to  it.  And  these  the 
world  calls  good. 

"For  all  we  know,  Catherine  de  Medici  was  of  the 
former  class.  But  how  is  it  possible  to  decide  whether 
one  of  these  classes  is  better  or  more  culpable  than  the 
other?  Human  beings  have  not  the  power  of  discovering 
this  exact  ratio  between  the  opposite  forces  of  tempta- 
tion and  resistance;  and  therefore  it  is  impossible  for 
them  to  judge  one  another  correctly. " 

PART  II 

The  conversation  on  the  staircase  was  interrupted  by 
our  guide,  who  had  been  waiting  patiently  while  we 
indulged  in  philosophical  speculations,  which  had  wan- 
dered somewhat  from  the  overhanging  gargoyles  of  the 
roof.  We  turned,  with  some  reluctance,  from  the  scene 
without  and  the  thoughts  which  it  had  inspired,  to  enter 
the  apartments  of  Henry  III.  These  occupy  the  whole 
of  the  upper  floor;  and  if  they  are  barren  of  their  former 
furniture,  they  may  at  least  boast  a  wealth  of  old  and 
historical  associations  connected  with  the  times  and 
doings  of  Catherine  de  Medici.  The  whole  suite,  con- 
sisting of  rooms,  of  private  closets  and  galleries  overlook- 
ing the  town,  is  in  a  perfect  state  of  restoration.  The 
French  government  has  devoted  much  time  and  money  to 

97 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

the  preservation  and  reproduction  of  old  designs  and 
styles  of  decoration.  Everywhere  the  blue  and  yellow 
polished  tiles,  representing  the  or  and  azure  of  heraldry, 
are  noticeable,  in  their  everchanging  design,  upon  the 
floor.  The  thick  beams  of  the  ceiling,  decorated  in  the 
thousand  patterns  and  brilliant  coloring  peculiar  to  the 
Renaissance,  blend  with  that  of  the  walls,  and  make  us 
believe  almost  that  it  is  yesterday  in  which  we  are  liv- 
ing rather  than  to-day.  A  beautiful  little  chamber  leads 
out  of  the  private  chapel  of  the  king.  It  is  entirely  lined 
with  tiny  wooden  panels,  two  hundred  and  forty  in  num- 
ber, which  are  all  of  different  design  and  highly  orna- 
mented in  gold  and  brown.  The  ceiling  is  so  similar  to 
the  walls  that  it  gives  to  the  whole  the  appearance  of  a 
little  jewel  box  built  to  enclose  some  royal  gem.  And 
indeed  it  did  once,  long  ago,  for  hard  by  is  a  window 
leading  to  the  famous  balcony  where  Marie  de  Medici,  the 
cousin  of  Catherine  and  the  wife  of  Henry  IV,  escaped, 
after  twenty  two  years  of  captivity  in  this  chamber.  The 
secret  cavities,  behind  their  symmetrical  panels,  bring 
vividly  to  mind  the  terrible  reality  of  those  Mediaeval 
days,  when  a  chance  mistake  in  court  diplomacy  might 
mean  ruin  or  even  death.  Then  an  injudicious  remark,  a 
word  too  much,  or  a  look  misunderstood,  might  bring  the 
fatal  consequences  of  an  angry  sovereign  or  of  a  schem- 
ing mother.  A  note  discovered,  intercepted  perhaps, 
the  paper  of  a  courtier,  might  be  as  dangerous  as  a  cup 
of  poison.  So  a  secret  panel,  opening  with  an  invis- 
ible spring,  was,  in  the  days  of  Blois,  of  Chambord,  or  of 
Chenon^eau,  a  valuable  necessity,  rather  than  an  idle 
plaything  in  which  to  hide  one's  jewels. 

A  little  door  leads  to  a  balcony  of  stone,  winding 
around  a  tower  to  the  dungeon  where  the  Cardinal  de 
Lorraine,  the  ill-fated  brother  of  the  Due  de  Guise, 
passed  his  last  night  on  earth.  It  was  during  the  morning 
that   he  was  taken  out  upon  some   false   pretense   and 


B  L  ()  I S 

murdered  at  a  place  not  far  distant.  The  dun^'con  is  the 
same  to-day  as  when  the  Cardinal  was  imprisoned  in  it. 
A  large,  iron-grated  window  looks  out  toward  the  garden 
of  the  king,  high  up  on  the  MediiEval  walls,  and  across  a 
narrow  gateway.  In  the  distance,  are  the  baths  of  his 
persecutor,  Catherine  de  Medici.  As  one  looks  out  upon 
all  this  from  behind  the  bars  of  iron,  one  may  well 
imagine  the  despair  of  the  Cardinal,  the  agony  of  antici- 
pation in  which  he  must  have  passed  that  last  night 
in  prison.  With  what  terrible  sufferings  of  mind  and 
soul  must  he  have  looked  first  at  the  beautiful  scene 
without,  thinking  the  while  of  all  that  it  embodied, 
of  life,  of  freedom,  of  everything  that  is  precious  to  a 
human  being!  And  with  what  a  sickening  dread  must 
he  have  turned  to  the  iron  door,  or  the  round  hole  in  the 
centre  of  his  royal  cell,  where  on  the  morrow  his  body 
might  be  precipitated  into  the  bowels  of  the  castle,  from 
which  no  link  or  memory  of  him  ever  could  return !  A 
shudder  passed  over  my  companion  and  myself  as  we 
turned  to  one  another  and  exclaimed,  almost  in  the  same 
breath:  "And  of  such  were  the  Mediaeval  days." 

"The  present  days  are  bad,"  said  I,  "far  worse  than 
they  should  be ;  but  I  think  we  have  a  few  advantages 
over  those  that  are  left  behind,  in  spite  of  telegraph 
poles,  electric  cars  and  modern  so-called  conveniences." 

"It  is,  indeed,  difficult  to  combine  advanced  civiliza- 
tion with  the  early  simplicity  and  taste,"  the  Comte 
remarked,  musingly.  "The  modern  education  seems 
to  teach  rich  men  nothing  of  this  principle  and  to  teach 
poor  men  still  less.  At  present,  apparently,  every- 
thing is  considered  useful  if  only  it  is  made  cheap  and 
ugly.  In  the  olden  times  everything  was  made  to  please 
the  eye  and  to  satisfy  the  taste,  without  the  least  idea  of 
its  convenience.  Take  these  old  chateaux  of  the  Loire, 
for  instance.  They  are  wretchedly  inconsistent  and 
impracticable  to  live  in.  But  they  are  perfectly  beau- 
09 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


r ,  T 


j^  A  ^  *^'^"''  ^here,  in  the  world  to-day,  do  they  build  such 
wonderful,  such  artistic  palaces?  Where  do  they  even 
build  a  cottage  or  a  hamlet  to  compare  in  beauty  with 
the  old  thatched  roofs  and  plastered  walls  of  earlier  cen- 
turies? I  should  very  much  like  to  see  that  place,  if  it 
exists,  for  at  present  I  find  nothing  but  an  ugly  mass  of 
hard  white  stone  and  plaster,  coming  to  life  daily  here  in 
France.  The  same  appears,  in  yellow  brick,  with  slate  or 
tiles,  in  England,  and  in  America  j'ou  are  satisfied  with 
painted  wood.  Really,  the  modem  work  seems  framed 
to  please  every  artistic  sense  to  a  marvelous  degree !  I 
suppose  it  is  the  quintessence  of  convenience,  for  it  must 
have  something  to  recommend  it."  And  the  Comte  con- 
cluded his  sarcasm  with  a  little  laugh. 

"The  present  system  of  classes  and  their  wages  would 
make  such  works  as  these  French  chateaux  impossible 
for  any  one  to  undertake  in  these  days,"  I  replied.  "If  a 
man  did  not  ruin  himself  in  building  such  a  place,  his 
family  would  do  so  before  the  third  generation,  judging 
from  the  rate  at  which  great  fortunes  are  now  dissipated. 
Property  taxation,  the  lack  of  primogeniture,  and  a  thou- 
sand other  results  of  popular  legislation,  have  rendered 
"'•■  •>  l/J  ^^^^  pleasures  impossibilities.  I  fear  the  world  must 
r  §    H    satisfy  itself  to-day  with  'castles  in  the  air.'  " 

"But  all  this  does  not  help  matters  in  the  least,"  added 
my  friend;  "it  is  just  what  I  complain  of.  The  old  sys- 
tems and  customs  are  being  gradually  broken  down, 
without  any  thought  of  supplanting  them  by  better  ones. 
The  ancient  art  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  has  never 
been  equaled  since  their  day.  The  great  castles  and 
chateaux  of  the  middle  ages  are  not  built  nowadays. 
And  so  it  is  with  almost  all  the  greater  things  that  are 
beautiful.  They  must  inevitably  pass  away  sometime. 
At  least  their  material  existence  will.  And  what  is  the 
artistic  and  historic  world  to  do  when  they  are  gone? 
The  present    systems  of    culture  and    refinement  seem 


•*• .  T 


Y .  T 


l\t 


T .  Y 


Y( 


B  LOIS 


T .  Y 


T .  T 


i .  i 


sinpiilarly  short-sighted.  They  establish  schools  and 
academies,  it  is  true,  for  the  advancement  of  learning,  in 
those  subjects  that  their  ancestors  have  conceived.  But 
they  do  little,  or  nothing,  toward  encouraging  the  inspira- 
tion, the  mental  simplicity,  which  characterized  the  con- 
ception of  that  inspiration.  The  present  educations, 
systems  and  dc%-elopments  establish  a  routine  life  and  a 
mechanical  existence,  which  kills,  little  by  little,  all  the 
freedom  of  thought,  all  the  originality,  all  the  natural 
gifts  lying  latent  in  human  nature.  Yet  under  all  these 
adverse  influences,  they  think  it  strange  that  the  present 
generation  lacks  purity  of  inspiration,  or  artistic  great- 
ness. Now  this  is  very  inconsistent.  We  complain  of 
the  lack  of  artistic  genius,  of  refinement  and  cultivation 
in  artistic  things,  and  yet  each  day  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury we  do  more  and  more  toward  its  destruction.  Sim- 
plicity is  the  thing,  and  the  only  thing,  which  can 
produce  a  lasting  creation,  or  a  lasting  impression  upon 
this  overflowing  world  of  to-day. 

"Let  them  look  to  themselves,  I  say,"  continued  the 
Comte,  with  vehemence,  "these  men  who  have  made 
and  are  still  making  our  century  what  it  is.  It  is  to  them 
that  the  results  are  due.  They  are  responsible  for  what 
they  would  now  deplore.  They  have  taken  away  the  old- 
time  possibilities  of  leisure,  and  therefore  they  should 
not  expect  those  results,  which  are  alone  the  outcome  of 
leisure  and  of  natural  joy,  the  joy  of  a  peaceful  and 
dreamy  life,  far  from  the  cares  and  sadnesses  of  our  urban 
existence,  far  from  the  hardening  influences  of  striving 
men.  Joy!  What  a  mockerj' the  term  is  to-day!  Joy! 
How  many  of  the  men  or  women  about  us  in  the  world 
to-day  have  but  an  atom  of  it  in  their  whole  composi- 
tion! Bad  as  the  early  days  have  been  in  many  ways, 
they  could  still  teach  us  many  a  precious  lesson  to  which 
we  have  forgotten,  in  our  speed,  to  prove  ourselves  and 
our  ideas  superior." 


i .  Y 


Y .  Y 


t.t 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

"My  dear  friend,"  I  replied,  at  the  conclusion  of 
these  reflections,  "you  must  remember  that  you  are  a 
Conservative,  but  that  the  world  of  the  present  day  is 
Radical,  yea,  and  more  than  Radical.  Entre  nous,  I 
coincide  with  many  if  not  all  of  your  opinions,  and  I 
hope  sincerely  that  some  day  we  shall  obtain  the  much 
desired  'golden  mean'  of  which  the  poets  speak,  between 
Radicalism  and  Conservatism,  between  poetry  and  prac- 
ticality, between  ornament  and  use.  I  say,  let  us  indeed 
hope  that  the  future  may  be  such  a  medium  between  the 
present  and  the  past." 

Our  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  voice  of  our 
guide,  exclaiming,  as  she  threw  open  a  door,  with  the  air 
of  one  who  is  offering  the  best  she  has  to  an  appreciative 
audience:  "This,  Messieurs,  is  the  bed-chamber  of 
Henry  III."  And,  indeed,  this  was  the  bed-chamber, 
the  famous  bed-chamber,  of  that  dissolute  monarch.  It 
looked  not  unlike  several  other  royal  bed-chambers  in  the 
castle.  The  floor  was  covered  with  blue  and  yellow  tiles. 
The  walls  were  hung  in  painted  canvas,  elaborately  fres- 
coed in  the  patterns  of  that  period.  The  windows  over- 
looked the  town  below,  and  the  arches  of  their  heavy 
balconies  were  painted  in  the  same  brilliant  coloring 
which  is  so  noticeable  from  without.  Everywhere  the 
salamander,  crown  and  coronet  appeared,  amid  a  mass 
of  blue  and  gold  and  yellow,  adding  richness  to  the  whole, 
and  beauty  to  one  another.  Yes,  this  was  indeed  the 
chamber  of  Henry  III,  the  chamber  in  which  so  much 
had  happened  to  be  handed  down  to  history,  the  chamber 
and  perhaps  the  very  spot  where  the  famous  murder  of 
the  Due  de  Guise  had  taken  place.  Scenes  and  names 
and  characters  well  iip  and  overflow  the  mind  as  we  stand 
here,  in  the  room  that  has  witnessed  so  much  and 
between  these  four  walls  that  have  so  many  histories  to 
tell  if  they  could  only  speak.  The  tragic  death-scene  of 
the  Due  de  Guise  seems  to  stand  out,  especially,  and  to 


BI.OIS 

present  its  vi\'id  picture  to  our  imaginative  fancy.  Cath- 
erine do  Medici,  hard  and  pitiless,  moved  only  by  hor 
jealousy  and  pride,  passes  before  the  eyes,  and  sinks 
behind  the  tapestries  of  an  adjoining  apartment.  Henry 
III,  inflamed  by  his  intriguing  mother  and  thinking  only 
of  how  to  rid  himself  of  this  cousin,  who  had  incurred  the 
jealousy  of  Catherine,  waits  in  his  private  room,  to  hear 
the  Due  de  Guise  come  toward  his  door,  and  fall  beneath 
a  murderer's  hand.  The  room  is  separated  by  a  portiJ^re 
of  tapestr}-,  only,  and  as  the  king  waits  for  the  sounds, 
which  are  soon  to  tell  him  that  his  treacherous  commands 
have  been  fulfilled,  the  scowl  upon  his  brow  haunts  us, 
and  we  shudder  as  the  Due  de  Guise  enters  the  fatal 
chamber.  The  walls  are  lined  by  armed  gentlemen  of 
the  court,  and  we  are  surrounded  by  them  and  crushed  in 
by  those  who  push  forward  to  bow  to  the  Due.  He 
advances  unsuspectingly,  holding  his  drageoir  in  his 
hand,  and  smiling  upon  those  who  are  around  him. 
Suddenly  a  footstep  from  behind  surprises  him.  An 
expression  of  alarm  overspreads  his  countenance,  as  he 
realizes,  for  the  first  time,  his  danger.  Another  step, 
nearer  and  nearer.  It  is  an  enemy,  a  murderer,  and  he 
may  not  show  his  fear,  lest  all  be  lost.  Another  sound, 
close  to  him  now,  tells  him  instinctively  that  he  must 
defend  himself,  or  die  by  the  assassin's  hand.  He  turns, 
he  is  about  to  draw  his  sword ;  but  another  hand  is  too 
swift,  too  fatal,  in  its  aim.  Ah,  unhappy  cousin  of  an 
angry  king,  you  are  too  late ;  the  hour  is  at  hand,  and 
nothing  can  avail.  Ah,  noble  victim  of  a  jealous  queen, 
you  are  betrayed,  and  naught  can  save  you  now.  The 
poignard  is  at  your  heart;  and  enemies  abound.  Fall, 
there,  upon  the  cold  blue  tiles.  The  "bleu  de  France" 
has  neither  aid  nor  pity  for  you,  in  this  last  hour.  Your 
life  is  cut  down  in  a  moment,  and  you  lie  writhing  amid 
a  pool  of  royal  blood. 

And  has  the  king  no  word,  no  act  of  pity  or  of  mercy. 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

for  his  murdered  kinsman?  Has  he  no  feelings  of 
remorse  nor  consciousness  of  crime  within  his  heart?  It 
would  seem  not,  for  methinks  that  we  can  see  him,  issuing 
from  among  the  tapestries,  in  the  confusion  of  this  dread- 
ful scene,  to  stop  before  the  dying  man  and  kick  the 
bleeding  brow  that  is  turned  toward  him.  Another  and 
another  "coup  de  pied"  fall  in  relentless  wrath  upon  the 
body,  from  which  life  has  been  so  foully  driven, and  from 
which  it  is  now  fast  fleeing,  as  from  an  outraged  shrine. 
And  has  the  royal  pleasure  been  fulfilled;  is  the 
monarch  satisfied?  Is  His  Majesty  unmoved  by  con 
science,  or  by  a  solitary  feeling  of  humanity?  Alas,  it  is 
difficult  for  us  to  see,  the  courtiers  hover  so  around  the 
king,  the  scene  becomes  confused.  Forms  and  faces 
grow  dim.  The  curtain  of  Time  drops  softly  over  all; 
and  we  are  once  more  in  an  empty  chamber,  filled  only 
with  the  recollection  of  a  former  century. 

Many  winding  passages  and  stairs,  worn  by  the  deep 
ruts  of  time,  bring  one  at  last  from  the  apartments 
of  Henry  III  to  those  of  Catherine  de  Medici.  They  are 
upon  the  lower  story,  and  are  much  the  same,  in  plan  and 
in  decoration,  as  the  ones  above.  The  visitor  is  not  a 
little  impressed,  as  he  passes  through  these  rooms  and 
guard-chambers,  by  their  massive  chimney  pieces  of 
carved  stone.  Still  larger  rooms  open  out  of  antecham- 
bers, decorated  in  the  manner  of  the  rest  of  Blois,  and 
the  long  line  of  apartments  ends  in  the  private  closet  and 
bed-chamber  of  the  most  famous  member  of  a  famous 
family.  Although  our  guide  tells  us  but  little  of  the 
historic  associations  of  these  rooms,  inhabited  by  the 
Queen  of  France,  the  imagination  is  fain  to  picture  sights 
and  scenes  which  must  have  been  there  in  her  time. 
Near  at  hand,  a  beautifully  ornamented  little  door,  carved 
in  French  Gothic,  and  perfectly  restored  in  colors,  leads 
into  one  of  the  guard  chambers.  And  here  again  we  find 
104 


BLOIS 

another  door  of  ccjual  beauty,  while  the  massive  chimney 
piece  of  carved  stone,  might  well  be  called  a  chef  d"(cuvre. 
A^ain  the  life  and  characters  of  Blois  come  vividly  to  the 
imajjination  in  these  royal  chambers  which  have  enclosed 
so  many  chapters  of  French  history.  Almost  do  the  faces 
of  the  soldiers,  courtiers,  generals  and  statesmen,  rise 
and  live,  until  we  expect  to  hear  them  exchange  a  word, 
a  salutation,  or  an  order.  Here  is  a  group  about  the 
fire.  There  is  another  by  the  window,  looking  out  upon 
the  court.  Each  and  all  are  the  satellites,  the  servants  of 
a  queen  who  is  there  behind  the  ornamented  door,  there 
in  the  recesses  of  the  tapestry-covered  boudoir,  the  cor- 
ridor or  the  closet,  there  behind  it  all,  invisible  and  yet 
holding  all  within  her  iron  grasp.  For  Catherine  de 
Medici  is  no  visionar}'  queen,  but  an  august  reality,  before 
whom  all  tremble,  all  bow  down.  Within  her  hand  she 
holds  the  reins  of  a  kingdom,  and  directs  a  power,  that  is 
second  to  none  other  of  the  Mediaeval  world.  What  a 
life,  indeed,  is  hers,  what  a  power,  what  a  past!  And 
yet  when  all  is  said  of  it,  all  written,  was  not  the  power 
of  the  life  of  Catherine  de  Medici  more  like  a  living 
death,  so  tinged  was  it  with  blood,  and  so  covered  was  it 
by  a  cloak  of  crime  and  cruelty? 

A  great  door  swings  to,  upon  our  departing  footsteps. 
A  modern  staircase  brings  us  to  a  great  hall  whose  domed 
ceiling  is  covered  with  golden  fleurs-de-lis  upon  a  ground 
of  royal  blue.  We  wander  in  and  out  among  the  pillars,^ 
which  are  but  slender  bands  to  uphold  so  vast  a  chamber'' 
as  is  this.  It  is  the  ancient  "Salle  dcs  Etats"  of  the 
Chateau  of  Blois,  and  we  are  wafted  back  to  the  very 
beginning  of  its  history,  to  mingle  with  the  company  oi 
nobles  assembled  here  who  rule  the  land. 

At  last  our  dreams  of  other  days  come  to  an  end, 
and  we  are  once  more  under  the  beautiful  tower  of  Louis 
XII  and  in  the  cloister,  where  again  we  look  back  upon 
the  home  of  so  many  of  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 

'05 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


We  cast  a  last  look  at  the  tower,  ere  we  part,  and  breathe 
a  silent  prayer  that  we  may  once  more  return.  The 
shadows  of  the  archway  are  succeeded  by  the  steps,  the 
avenue,  the  town;  and  Blois,  in  all  its  beauty,  all  its 
grandeur,  all  its  history  is  left  behind.  And  as  the  haunts 
of  Catherine,  of  Henry,  of  Francois,  Louis,  Claude  and 
Anne  fade  out  of  our  sight,  their  memories,  both  good 
and  bad,  seem  to  come  out  more  strongly,  and  to  remain 
imprinted  upon  the  mind. 


i .  T 


T .  i 


T .  i" 


T .  T 


y .  i 


io6 


T .  V 


Y .  V 


i  .  T 


CHAPTER   V 


T .  Y 


t.Y 


Y ,  Y 


CHAUMONT 

A  long,  straight  road  leads  from  Blois  to  Chaumont, 
ending  in  a  street  between  two  rows  of  plaster-covered 
houses.  A  high  cliff,  covered  with  trees  and  shrubs,  rises 
a  hundred  feet  above  the  street  and  seems  almost  to  over- 
hang the  roofs  of  slate.  The  deep,  blue  waters  of  the 
Loire  are  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  the  cliff  that  are 
made  longer  by  the  setting  sun,  and  they  wash  the  garden 
walls.  Such  is  the  village  of  Chaumont.  Pointed  roofs 
and  pinarets,  standing  against  the  sky,  crown  the  cliff 
and  tell  of  the  presence  of  the  castle. 

We  draw  up  at  the  Hotel  Miichin,  occupying  a  humble 
position  at  one  end  of  the  village  street.  It  is  half  past 
seven,  and  in  spite  of  the  pleasures  of  the  afternoon,  we 
welcome  the  hour  for  dinner.  The  dining-room  of  this 
diminutive  public-house  is  approached  through  the  prin- 
cipal apartment  of  the  establishment,  the  billiard  room. 
Its  ding}'  walls  are  decorated  in  lugubrious  frescoes,  of  an 
indifferent  character.  The  cobwebs  in  the  comers  look 
as  if  laden  down,  with  years,  and  the  accumulated  dust  of 
ages.  The  blackened  ceiling  bears  signs  of  many  a  bowl 
of  tobacco,  smoked  beneath  it.  In  short,  this  is  the  ban- 
queting hall  of  the  Hotel  Mi;chin.  We,  however,  are  not 
deemed  worthy  of  being  honored  with  a  banquet  here, 
and  we  sit  down — though  none  the  less  contentedly — to 
cat  our  "poulet  de  fondation,"  and  to  turn  our  thoughts 
toward  the  Chateau  of  Chaumont. 
107 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

The  evening  is  one  of  those  soft  and  mild  ones  tnat  are 
to  be  found  so  frequently  in  August.  The  sky  overhead 
is  spangled  with  a  myriad  of  stars  that  culminate,  at  last, 
in  the  long  "milky  way,"  which  seems  to  cut  the  heavens 
with  an  avenue  of  silvery  light.  After  our  dinner,  we  are 
tempted,  before  bringing  the  day  to  an  end,  to  stroll 
through  the  village  street,  out  toward  the  river,  beside 
which  we  had  been  lingering  during  the  last  days.  The 
little  houses  looked  even  smaller  in  the  moonlight.  They 
seem  to  be  positively  shriveled  up,  in  fear  of  the  covered 
cliff,  which  is  threatening  to  fall  upon  them.  The  modern 
village  church  looms  up  beside  the  road,  and  its  pointed 
spire  is  lost  in  the  soft  shades  of  the  night.  The  "Pres- 
bytfere,"  built  in  the  shadows  of  the  church,  seems  to  be 
gazing  at  itself  in  the  great,  moving  mirror  by  its  side — 
the  water,  that  is  sometimes  blue  and  dark,  sometimes 
light  and  clear,  sometimes  yellow,  as  it  runs  over  a  bed 
of  golden  sand.  The  houses  disappear  one  by  one,  and  a 
little  square  comes  into  view,  overlooking  the  river. 
Linden  trees  are  planted  here  and  there  upon  it,  and 
beneath  them  the  village  children  play  a  last  game  of 
hide  and  seek.  Their  childish  cries,  their  protestations 
to  their  mothers'  calls,  alone  break  the  peaceful  calmness 
of  the  river's  bank.  One  by  one  the  children  leave  the 
game  and  seek  their  homes.  The  waters,  flowing 
smoothly  on  their  course,  splash  against  the  bank.  A 
horse  and  cart,  delayed  by  some  unknown  cause,  pass  us 
hastily  upon  the  village  road,  to  gain  the  town  beyond. 
These  are  the  last  sounds  which  disturb  the  tranquillity  of 
the  summer's  evening,  lighted  by  the  stars. 

And  as  the  hour  strikes,  from  the  village  church,  we 
return  to  our  hotel.  We  cross  the  long,  low  billiard 
room,  whose  darkened  walls  are  made  still  darker  by 
the  night  without;  we  pass  the  kitchen,  with  its  large, 
square  table,  where  the  men  are  drinking;  we  ascend  the 
steep  flight  of  stairs,  leading  from  the  kitchen  itself,  and 
1 08 


C  H  A  U  M  O  N  T 

at  last  lay  our  heads  down  to  rest  in  rooms  as  small 
as  they  are  uncomfortable.  The  bursts  of  laughter 
from  the  men  below  reach  us  through  the  cracks  of  the 
old  tiled  floors,  and  mingle  with  the  dreams  of  a  day  that 
has  been  filled  with  Chambord,  Rlois,  and  the  approach 
to  Chaumont. 

Early  the  next  morning  we  left  our  hotel  to  enter  the 
park  of  Chaumont  by  ;m  iron  gateway,  which  was  almost 
directly  across  the  street.  This  entrance  is,  however,  far 
from  being  one's  ideal  of  the  principal  approach  to  a 
chateau  so  renowned  as  this.  The  gate  itself,  which  is 
painted  black,  has  an  indescribable  air  about  it  which 
suggests  something  less  grandiose  than  Chaumont,  and  it 
seems  more  appropriate  to  a  side  entrance  than  to  the 
chief  approach.  A  steep  avenue,  cut  into  the  side  of  the 
cliff,  leads  from  it  toward  the  chateau.  On  the  left 
shrubberies  and  English  ivy  hide  a  stone  wall,  built  there 
to  protect  the  land  from  sliding  away.  The  high  trees 
upon  the  right  half  disclose  and  half  conceal  the  pano- 
rama of  the  Loire,  which,  as  we  ascend,  becomes  more 
and  more  beautiful. 

At  the  end  of  half  a  mile,  the  avenue  opens  upon  the 
park  above.  Lawns,  that  are  left  untrimmed  and  allowed 
often  to  grow  half  wild,  are  dotted  here  and  there 
with  trees,  and  they  stretch  off  with  a  rolling  effect,  due 
partly  to  the  long  grass.  At  the  edge  of  the  cliff  they  are 
lost  in  evergreens  and  bushes.  The  pointed  slate  roofs, 
the  towers  and  the  gray  walls  of  the  chateau,  appear  in 
front,  while  the  park  spreads  out  behind.  And  yet  the 
park  itself  is  disappointing.  It  seems  too  cramped  and 
narrowed  for  the  dignity  of  the  chateau  in  its  midst. 
The  trees  seem  small,  as  if  the  earth  in  which  they  grew 
could  not  afford  to  give  them  their  necessary  f<x)d,  or  as 
if  they  were  beaten  by  a  harsh  wind.  The  stables  are  too 
prominent  and  too  near  the  chateau.  The  gardens,  which, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  are  too  much  filled  with  flower- 
109 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


beds,  near  together,  lose  in  effect  by  their  great  number  and 
by  their  odd  shapes.     They  remind  one  more  of  that  acre 
of  ground  which  surrounds  a  villa  in  the  Paris  suburbs. 
An  effect  of  simplicity  and  grandeur  would  be  more 
in  keeping  with  the  massive  pile  of  stone  which  rises  now 
before  us,  flanked  by  its  great  round  towers.     Large  trees 
and  straight  avenues,  which  lose  themselves  in  the  dis- 
tance, would  have  been  preferable  here  to  this  overtaxed 
originality  and   misunderstood  variety.     The   matchless 
situation  of  the  chateau  calls   for  natural  beauty  made 
by  nature  itself,  and  not  for  any  human  creation,  which 
bears  always  testimony  of  the  imperfection  of  man.     For 
"jT        'jT   ja      we  are  no  longer  standing  in  front  of  a  chateau  of  the 
'     *  ■*      French  Renaissance,  whose  delicate  lacework  and  carving 

would  allow  more  liberty  to  the  imagination,  would  call 
for  exterior  embellishments  more  properly  termed  pretty 
than  beautiful. 

Chaumont  has  nothing  of  the  fairy-like  grace  of 
a  Renaissance  chef  d'oeuvre.  It  is  rather  stately 
than  graceful,  rather  imposing  than  alluring,  borro%ving 
its  beauty,  as  well  from  its  position,  as  from  its  con- 
struction. From  the  first  moment,  the  castle  appears  as 
a  very  good  example  of  that  architectural  period  which 
preceded  the  awakening  of  the  Renaissance.  If  Chen- 
on^eau  and  Azay  le  Rideau  picture  to  the  mind,  as  we 
shall  see  before  long,  the  refinements  and  pleasures  of 
luxurious  courts,  Chaumont  awakens  an  impression  per- 
haps unknown  until  now.  It  brings  a  feeling,  more 
of  respect  than  admiration,  a  souvenir  of  feudal  life,  of 
pride  and  ancient  might,  inherent  in  a  period  preceding 
that  of  the  Renaissance.  It  has,  in  addition  to  the  his- 
torical interest  of  the  other  chateaux  of  the  Loire,  that, 
of  having  had  a  life  which  is  now  lost  in  the  night  of 
bygone  centuries.  We  feel  that  Catherine  de  Medici 
and  Diane  do  Poitiers  have  had  predecessors  within  these 
"V        V    Iw       walls  and  that  they  have  left  something  of  interest  behind 


i .  T 


T ,  S 


f .  t 


T ,  T 


C  H  A  U  M  O  N  T 


Y .  i 


T .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


them.  The  drawbridge  over  the  empty  moats,  in  front 
of  the  ;;;ieat  oaken  door,  is  now  lowered,  as  if  to  give  way 
to  chevaliers  clothed  in  steel  and  silver  armor,  returning 
from  a  long  war.  The  African  hounds,  belonging  to  the 
Princess,  seem  to  watch  for  these  knights,  that  they  may 
announce  their  master's  arrival  to  their  mistress. 

Our  imaginations  would  induce  us  to  believe  that  it  is 
night,  and  that  the  chateau  is  plunged  in  darkness.  A 
light,  here  and  there,  is  the  only  thing  that  tells  of  life 
behind  the  heavy  walls.  The  large  cedar  trees  hide 
behind  their  heavy  cloak  of  leaves  a  young  chevalier, 
perhaps  a  page,  watching  in  the  night  his  lady-love,  who 
stands  beyond,  behind  the  small  lozenges  of  glass  joined 
together  in  their  leaden  frames.  She  opens  the  window 
and  comes  out  upon  the  balcony,  where,  leaning  upon  the 
stone  rail,  she  watches  the  stars  shining,  bright  and  clear, 
in  a  cloudless  sky.  Now  her  eyes  wander  down  to  the 
Loire,  which  looks  like  an  endless  riband,  set  with  the 
diamond  reflections  of  the  stars.  Now  she  strains 
them  in  an  endeavor  to  absorb  the  matchless  panorama, 
glittering  in  the  moonlight,  a  hundred  feet  below.  It  is 
half  hidden  in  the  mantle  of  night — midnight — and  as 
the  new  day  finds  her  still  in  contemplation  of  the  scene, 
it  hears  also  the  plaintive  note  of  an  unseen  guitar.  The 
soft  harmony  is  borne  to  her  upon  the  summer  wind.  It 
hovers  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and  is  echoed  by  the 
hills. 

The  night  and  its  vision  of  a  beautiful  woman  have 
both  vanished  in  the  glare  of  the  morning  sun.  But  we 
are  still  in  front  of  the  castle,  which  appears  like  a 
gigantic  fan  whose  handle  is  the  drawbridge.  The  fan 
is  opened  evenly,  toward  the  right  and  left,  and  is  pointing 
toward  the  Loire.  Both  ends  of  it  arc  flanked  by  two 
large  towers,  while  two  more  guard  the  narrow  portion 
close  to  the  handle.  Between  these  last  two  towers  is  the 
great  entrance  door,  with  its  ancient  portcullis  still 
1 1 1 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

hanging  above  it,  though  centuries  have  passed  since  it 
was  used.  Charles  d' Amboise,  the  founder  of  the  present 
chateau,  has  given  his  name  to  the  tower  upon  the  left, 
while  the  cabalistic  signs  which  adorn  the  battlements  of 
the  tower  on  the  right  have  given  that  the  name  of 
Catherine  de  Medici.  A  cordon  of  stone,  almost  as 
wide  as  a  cornice,  encircles  the  two  towers  above  the 
first-story  windows.  The  C  in  cipher  and  the  monogram 
of  Charles  de  Chaumont  are  carved  in  the  stone  and 
alternated  with  the  emblem  of  the  chateau's  name, 
miniature  volcanoes — "Chaud  Mont" — warm  mountain. 
The  great  door  has  the  medallions  of  the  Twelve  Apostles 
carved  in  the  oak,  while  in  the  stone  above,  appear  the 
"L"  of  Louis  XII  on  a  seme  of  fleur-de-lis,  and  the 
"A"  of  Anne  de  Bretagne,  on  a  semd  of  ermines.  The 
rather  barren  walls  of  the  towers  are  adorned  with  a 
Cardinal's  chapeau  of  George  d'Amboise,  a  minister  of 
Louis  XII,  who  was  called  "the  friend  of  the  people." 
The  coat  of  arms  of  his  nephew,  Charles,  is  also  to  be 
seen,  "paly  of  six,  gold  and  gules,"  with  two  naked  wild- 
men  as  supporters. 

If  we  cross  the  bridge,  and  pass  through  the  vaulted 
archway,  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  what  is  called  "la  cour 
d'honneur. "  Some  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  this  was 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  wings  of  the  chateau;  but 
that  portion  overlooking  the  river  has  since  been  torn 
down  by  Berties  de  Vauguyen,  one  of  the  chatelains  of 
Chaumont,  and  replaced  by  an  esplanade  enclosed  with  an 
iron  rail.  From  this  is  to  be  seen  an  almost  unrivaled 
panorama.  The  cliff  here  is  so  steep  and  high  that  we 
seem  to  hover  above  the  valley  spreading  beneath.  And 
for  more  than  ten  miles  the  Loire  spins  its  graceful  thread 
through  what  is  called  "the  garden  of  France."  High 
upon  the  other  side  rise  the  hills,  dotted  with  clusters  of 
trees,  or  green,  with  the  well-known  vineyards  beyond, — 
"les  coteaux  de  la  Loire."    The  even  rows  of  vines  stretch 


CM  At;  MON  r 

away  for  miles  in  straiKht,  dark  lines.  Here  and  there. 
IjatJhes  of  reddish  brown  jfrapes  are  mingled  with  the 
white  and  preen.  In  some  places  the  sulphate,  sprinkled 
upon  the  leaves  to  protect  the  plant  from  a  much-feared 
disease,  looks  like  a  silvery  spot  upon  this  green  of 
emerald  hue.  Such  landscapes,  seen  by  the  lipht  of  a  sun 
so  clear  that  all  things  seem  to  shine,  awaken  in  one  an 
impression  of  contentment  and  peace  to  be  found  only  in 
nature,  and  which  nature  only  may  retain. 

Behind  us,  the  castle  rises,  upon  three  sides  of  an 
imperfect  ciuadrilateral.  The  fan-like  effect  has  remained 
without;  and  on  entering  the  court,  another  wing,  before 
unseen,  changes  the  shape  of  its  contour.  The  con- 
struction here  is  also  of  the  period  preceding  that  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  walls  look  like  the  skeleton  of  that 
architecture  on  which  the  following  period  was  to  add  the 
car\'ings,  the  delicate  art,  the  highest  development,  in 
fact,  of  its  knowledge  and  capacity.  An  arcade  of  some 
beauty  stretches  along  the  facade,  to  the  left  of  the 
entrance.  A  tower,  or  the  three  sides  of  one,  at  this  end 
of  the  arcade,  encloses  a  circular  staircase,  and  its  carved 
buttresses,  more  like  pilasters  in  their  appearance,  add  to 
the  effect.  Beds  of  flowers  grow  in  straight  lines  along 
the  walls,  while  a  stone  well-top,  brought  from  Italy, 
completes  the  ornamentation  of  the  court. 

We  had  been  standing  there  some  time,  when  a  woman, 
dressed  in  black  and  wearing  the  small  white  cap  of  the 
peasant  woman  of  Touraine,  came  toward  us  and  asked  us 
if  we  wished  to  visit  the  interior.  We  expressed  a  desire 
to  do  so  and  followed  her  to  the  tower  and  its  cloister. 
Some  twelve  or  thirteen  steps— the  exact  number  is  not 
ot  vital  importance— brought  us  to  a  heavy  oaken  door 
through  which  we  were  ushered  into  a  long  room,  called 
"la  Salle  des  Gardes."  Here  the  walls  are  hung  with 
Flemish  tapestries  of  the  fifteenth  centur}',  framed  in  oak 
panelings.  The  ceiling  is  high  and  made  of  black  oak 
>>3 


^a^a^a^^^a 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

beams  crossed  by  smaller  ones,  while  the  floor  is  paved  in 
ordinary  tiles  painted  brown. 

"This  is  'la  Salle  des  Gardes,'  "  said  our  guide,  glanc- 
ing around  the  room  to  see  if  all  was  in  order.  "The 
tapestries  are  old ;  but  they  have  been  placed  here  only 
recently.  The  furniture,  as  you  may  see,  is  all  of  old 
oak,  and  it  is  authentic.  Monsieur  le  Prince  and 
Madame  la  Princesse,  who  are  both  connoisseurs,  take 
pleasure  in  buying  a  great  deal  of  old  furniture  and 
bringing  it  here  to  decorate  Chaumont.  Every  year  they 
make  some  new  improvement.  This  year,  for  instance, 
we  are  to  have  some  old,  stained  windows  put  into  the 
historical  rooms.  If  ces  Messieurs  wish  to  take  a  look  at 
the  stone  chimney  here,  they  may  enter,  and  come  close 
to  it."  And  we  entered.  The  chimney,  which  occupies 
the  centre  of  the  further  end  of  the  great  room,  is  all  of 
stone  and  painted  according  to  the  period,  while  the 
escutcheon  of  the  present  master  adorns  the  centre  of  it. 

As  we  walk  through  the  room,  stopping  here  and  there 
to  admire  and  examine,  the  Comte  tells  me  that  once  or 
twice  a  year  (in  September  as  a  rule,  when  the  chateau  is 
filled  with  guests),  private  theatricals  are  performed  in 
this  room.  The  more  talented  guests  at  the  chateau  take 
part,  and  the  excellence  of  the  acting  and  management 
has  given  them  no  little  reputation  throughout  the  neigh- 
borhood. "These  entertainments  are  the  signal  for  great 
rejoicings,  picnics,  shooting  parties,  etc.,"  he  added. 
"The  princess,  who  is  a  delightful  hostess,  is  always 
ready  for  something  new  to  entertain  her  guests.  As  an 
instance  the  following  anecdote  is  told:  Wednesday  is 
the  day  allowed  for  strangers  to  visit  Chaumont  during 
the  residence  of  family  at  the  chateau.  And  one  day 
some  of  the  guests  took  it  into  their  heads  to  dress  up  as 
maids  or  servants,  and  to  act  as  guides.  The)^  showed  all 
the  rooms  to  the  strangers,  and  some  rooms  that  they 
ought  not  to  have  shown,  I  believe,  also.  Some  were 
114 


C  H  A  U  M  O  N  T 

very  clever  and  spiritucUe,  and  told  such  funny  stories 
that  the  poor  visitors  did  not  know  what  to  believe  and 
what  to  disregard,  and  were  completely  mystified." 

Our  guide  had  heard  some  of  the  Comte's  remarks,  and 
seeing  that  he  was  a  friend  of  the  house,  she  took  pains 
to  tell  us  more  about  the  place. 

"Here,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  table  near  a  window 
on  the  left,  "here  is  a  case  containing  some  very  interest- 
ing medallions  of  terra  cotta.  They  represent  the  profiles 
of  a  great  number  of  personages  who  lived  during  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  best  medallion,  both  in  its  like- 
ness and  its  finish,  is  that  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  who  was 
a  frequent  visitor  at  Chaumont.  He  was  a  great  friend 
of  Monsieur  Leray,  who  then  owned  the  chateau,  and  it 
was  doubtless  he  who  induced  the  son  to  go  on  an  expe- 
dition to  America;  for  it  is  well  known  that  young 
Monsieur  Leray  went  to  the  United  States,  and  tried  to 
colonize  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio.  But  it  is  also  a 
well-known  fact  that  he  did  not  succeed,  and  came 
back  to  Chaumont  after  his  father's  death  about  the 
year  1815. 

"Ces  Messieurs  will  admire  the  medallions  even  more 
when  they  have  learned  how  much  the  present  chateau 
owes  to  them.  The  greater  part  of  the  furniture  and 
perhaps  the  walls  themselves  were  saved  from  destruc- 
tion and  pillage  by  these  medallions,  now  resting  peace- 
fully under  this  glass  case. 

"In  1750,  forty-three  years  before  the  revolution  of  1793, 
Chaumont  was  bought  by  Monsieur  Leray,  whose  name, 
'sauf  votre  respect,"  I  have  already  mentioned.  He 
started,  in  the  park,  a  factory  of  pottery  and  ceramic 
products,  including  medallions,  which  were  made  out  of 
the  clay  of  Chaumont.  These  bear  testimony  to  the 
talent  of  Xini,  an  Italian,  who  superintended  the  factor>' 
and  who  gave  it  great  renown.  Thus,  industry'  came  to 
take  possession  of  a  castle  which  had  always  been  the 


V .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

abode  of  Royalty  and  of  great  peers.  The  Revolution 
broke  out  one  fine  day;  but  Chaumont,  being  no  longer 
considered  as  royal  property  and  only  as  a  simple  fac- 
tory, was  spared  by  the  enemies  of  the  nobility  and  of 
noble  property." 

Our  communicative  guide,  who  seemed  much  too  intel- 
ligent for  so  humble  a  position,  had  been  watching  us 
carefully,  as  if  to  notice  whether  our  interest  grew  in 
proportion  to  the  excitement  to  which  she  had  worked 
herself  up  during  her  speech.  She  must  have  been  satis- 
fied by  the  effect  which  she  produced,  for  she  evidently 
mistook  the  pallor  of  my  own  countenance,  produced  by 
the  combination  of  fatigue  and  a  cold  wind,  for  that  of 
excitement.  She  paused,  and  then  started  once  more  to 
speak  in  a  vein  which  must  have  been  a  favorite  one, 
judging  from  her  melodramatic  manner.  She  was  a 
handsome  woman,  and  her  eyes  flashed  in  an  inspiring 
way  as  she  began  her  second  story. 

"May  I  beg  ces  Messieurs  to  come  close  to  the  win- 
dow and  take  a  look  at  this  scene  below.  It  was  here 
that  an  interesting  circumstance  took  place,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  century, — in  1810,  I  believe. 

"A  very  great  lady,  no  less  a  person  than  Madame  la 
Baronne  de  Stael,  the  daughter  of  Necker,  the  minister 
of  Louis  XVI  and  wife  of  the  ambassador  whose  chris- 
tian name  was  Magnus,  was  traveling  one  day  by  the 
white  stone  dike  which  runs  along  the  bank  of  the  Loire, 
and  which  you  see  now  shining  in  the  morning  sun. 
The  great  lady  was  on  her  way  back  from  exile,  where 
she  had  been  sent  by  Napoleon,  who,  according  to  her 
own  opinion,  could  never  appreciate  her  truest  value. 
She  was  driving  in  a  'chaise  de  poste,'  and  as  she  passed 
Chaumont,  she  caught  sight  of  the  chateau,  standing  out 
of  its  bed  of  trees  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  ordered  her 
postillion  to  stop. 

"  'Postillion,  this  is  a  superb  chateau." 
116 


*  .  T 


T .  T 


t.t 


i .  r 


C  H  A  U  M  O  N  T 


Y .  T 


T .  T 


r.Y 


V ,  V 


"  'That  is  very  tnie,  Madame. " 

"  'And  whom  does  it  belonjj  to?" 

"  'To  Monsieur  Lcray  of  Chaumont,  a  good  man,  bon 
commc  du  pain,  le  phrc  de  son  pays." 

"  'Postillion,  my  journey  has  ended  here,  then.' 

"  'But  I  thoujjht  Madame  had  ordered  us  to  proceed  to 
Tours;  this  is  only  Onzain." 

"  'I  have  changed  my  mind,"  returned  Madame  de 
Stael,  and  thus  saying,  the  great  lady  descends  from 
her  coach,  has  it  sheltered  under  a  shed,  finds  a  boat  to 
carry  her  across  the  river — for  there  was  no  bridge  in 
those  days,  mark  you,  Messieurs — and  lands  at  the  foot 
of  this  cliff.  The  owner  was  in  the  United  States  then. 
Knowing  this,  she  summoned  the  overseer,  who  appeared, 
bowing  to  this  sudden  apparition. 

"  'Sir,  this  chateau  is  a  beautiful  construction,  and  its 
situation  is  a  wonderful  one,'  said  Madame  de  Stael  to  the 
overseer. 

"  'Madame,  I  am  glad  you  like  it.  Every  one  who  sees 
it  agrees  with  you." 

"  'They  have  all  expressed  their  admiration  in  words; 
but  I  will  do  it  by  my  actions,  for  I  am  going  to  establish 
myself  in  the  chateau.' 

"  'I  beg  Madame's  pardon;  have  I  well  understood — ?' 

"  'That  I  am  going  to  live  here.' 

"  'Madame  is  one  of  Monsieur  Leray's  relations,  then?' 

"  'No,  none  whatever.' 

"  'Doubtless  a  friend  of  the  family?' 

"  'No,  indeed.  I  have  not  even  met  Monsieur  Leray  in 
society.  But  my  name  is  la  Baronne  de  Stael — and  I  am 
the  daughter  of  Necker. ' 

"  'Oh!'  said  the  overseer. 

"And  the  great  lady,  taking,  I  suppose,  the  'Oh!'  for  a 
welcome,  selected  her  room — which  was  that  of  Monsieur 
Leray — and  declared  she  would  there  remain  until  his 
return  from   America.     She  was  true  to  her  word,  and 


i .  T 


T .  T 


f .  i 


T .  V 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

stayed  until — by  order  of  Napoleon — she  was  forced  to 
remove  to  a  further  exile." 

"Delightful!"  said  the  Comte,  who  had  listened  with 
interest  to  the  story.  "If  you  really  want  anything, 
there  is  nothing  like  taking  it  and  keeping  it,  and  that 
without  asking." 

"Ah  ga,  c'est  bien  vrai, "  replied  our  guide,  and  turn- 
ing toward  me,  probably  to  see  if  I  took  in  the  joke,  she 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  I  was  looking  very  tired. 
In  fact,  I  had  been  forced  to  seek  the  support  of  one  of 
the  hard,  wooden  chairs,  more  beautiful  perhaps  than 
comfortable. 

"Monsieur  is  ill?  Too  bad,  too  bad.  But  never  mind, 
I  will  give  him  a  good  glass  of  brandy  when  we  go  down. 
We  must  see  the  room  of  Catherine  de  Medici  first." 

With  a  great  deal  of  dignity  she  then  took  from  her 
pocket  a  large  bunch  of  keys.  Selecting  one  of  them, 
she  turned  it  in  the  lock  with  a  great  deal  of  noise  and 
creaking.  The  heavy  door  swung  open,  and  she  cried 
out: 

"Chambre  de  Catherine  de  Medici!" 

"I  must  apologize,"  she  added,  "for  the  absence  of 
the  stained  glass  windows.  They  are  in  Paris,  for  the 
present,  but  will  be  here  again  soon.  The  chimney,  which 
you  see  in  front,  is  remarkable  only  as  being  that  of  the 
queen's  room.  But  please  notice  the  doorway  on  the 
right,  which  leads  into  Ruggieri's  room.  Ruggieri  was 
the  astrologer  and  confidant  of  this  superstitious  Italian 
princess.  Some  time  since,  we  found  a  little  stone  stair- 
case, concealed  in  the  thickness  of  the  walls.  It  winds  up 
to  Ruggieri's  observatory  in  the  tower.  If  we  stop  here 
and  look  into  Catherine  de  Medici's  room,  ces  Messieurs 
will  notice  the  old  carved  bed,  with  its  four  twisted  posts 
and  its  canopy.  The  coverlet  is  modern,  but  copied  from 
an  ancient  pattern.  As  you  may  see,  the  moss-colored 
cloth  is  covered  with  various  colored  silk  applications. 


oil  A  U  MONT 

just  as  the  original  stuffs  were,  Madame  la  Princcssc 
had  it  made  recently,  but  she  was  so  dissatisfied  with  the 
coloring  that  she  wrote  rae  to  put  it  near  the  window 
that  the  sun  might  fade  it  to  a  softer  tone.  It  was  very 
e.\pensi%'e,  and  Madame  regrets  having  spent  so  much 
upon  it." 

At  this  point,  our  guide  drew  herself  up  in  great 
majesty,  walked  to  the  window,  and  turning  towards  us 
once  more,  she  continued,  with  the  same  inspired  air 
which  she  had  assumed  before: 

"The  queen  is  here,  sitting  close  to  the  window  and  in 
the  recess  within  which  I  now  stand.  Her  countenance 
is  that  of  a  woman  greatly  preoccupied.  Her  body  is 
bent  forward,  her  forehead  resting  upon  her  hand,  and  she 
leans  toward  the  door  which  leads  to  Ruggieri's  room. 
She  is  listening  intently,  as  if  to  catch  the  faintest  sound. 
Suddenly  she  hears  the  noise  of  a  door,  opening  and  clos- 
ing again.  Footsteps  sound  upon  the  stone  staircase,  and 
the  noise  grows  faint  and  fainter  as  the  steps  are  lost  in 
the  distance.  The  queen  rises  to  her  feet  in  an  endeavor 
to  call,  but  her  lips  close  without  framing  the  sound; 
she  falls  back  upon  her  chair  and  sighs  deeply.  For  she 
knows  that  the  steps  she  hears  must  be  those  of  her 
astrologer,  ascending  the  winding  stairs  which  lead  to 
his  observatory.  She  knows  that  he  has  gone  to  fulfil 
her  orders,  to  consult  the  stars  as  to  the  destiny  of  her 
children.  Cruel  and  depraved  as  it  is,  her  mother's  heart 
has  shrunk  from  the  ordeal  at  the  last  moment,  and  she 
has  already  risen  to  stay  the  fulfilment  of  the  order;  but 
pride  and  superstition  have  overcome  her  softer  feelings, 
and  she  awaits  the  issue.  Ruggieri  is  already  upon  the 
platform  of  the  highest  tower  of  Chaumont,  communing 
with  the  stars. 

"The  night  has  fallen  clear  and  cold— a  night  of  Octo- 
ber, lighted  by  a  silver  crescent  in  the  cast  and  stars  so 
brilliant  that  they  seem  the  inevitable   vanguard   of  a 


^a^^i^^K 


?ic 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

heavy  frost  for  the  next  morning.  The  pale,  cold  light, 
rendered  still  softer  and  more  indistinct  by  the  stained 
glass  window,  spreads  a  dismal  sadness  through  the  room. 
The  chairs,  the  table,  and  the  bed  with  its  four  twisted 
posts,  blend  with  the  dark  hangings  of  the  wall.  A 
mirror  hanging  opposite  the  stone  chimney  alone  catches 
the  rays  of  the  moon,  and  reflects  them  in  a  metallic 
glare  against  the  dark  surroundings.  The  queen,  Cath- 
erine, is  still  sitting  in  the  oaken  chair,  leaning  forward 
with  her  forehead  upon  her  hands.  Footsteps  are  heard 
at  last  upon  the  stairs,  and  they  grow  loud  as  they  come 
near.  The  queen  rises  and  walks  hurriedly  to  the 
door.  She  lifts  the  heavy  portiere  of  tapestry,  turns  the 
knob,  and  a  man  clad  in  the  long  robes  of  a  magician 
enters.  The  queen  locks  the  door  carefully  behind  him, 
and  follows  him  to  the  chair. 

"  'What  have  you  seen?'  she  enquires,  eagerly. 

"  'I  have  drawn  four  themes  of  nativity,  corresponding 
to  the  four  sons  of  j'our  Majesty,"  replied  the  astrologer. 
'These  themes  are  the  result  of  astronomic  observations, 
combined  and  drawn  according  to  fixed  rules.  They  are 
always  followed  by  a  series  of  necessary  consequences, 
which  may  be  sometimes  fortunate,  though  they  are  more 
often  unfortunate.  Thus  human  destiny  is  known  and 
determined  beforehand.  I  read  it  in  the  heavens,  where 
it  is  written  in  letters  of  fire.  And  according  to  these 
themes,  the  four  princes,  your  Majesty's  sons,  will  die 
violent  deaths.  They  will  die  without  posterity,  and  will 
each  wear,  successively,  a  royal  crown. ' 

"The  haughty  queen  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  whole  life,  perhaps,  tears  rolled  from  her 
eyes. 

"  'These  observations  are,  alas,  combined  according  to 
fixed  rules?"  she  enquired. 

"  'Yes,  your  Majesty." 

"  'Fatal  consequences  follow  them?' 


C  H  A  L'  M  U  N  T 

"  'Yes,  your  Majesty." 

"  'Then  let  us  ascertain  if  you  could  not  have  been 
mistaken  in  readinjj  the  words  written  in  letters  of  fire 
upon  the  heavens.  Let  us  consult  the  ma;;ic  art,  and  see 
if  it  will  confirm  the  language  of  the  stars.' 

"  'Amen — so  let  it  be,'  replied  Ruggicri,  solemnly; 
and  leading  the  queen  by  the  hand  to  the  mirror  shining 
in  the  night,  he  said: 

"  'Look  into  this  enchanted  mirror  and  you  will  see  a 
large  room.  It  is  not  the  one  in  which  we  stand.  Those 
who  shall  cross  that  room  will  reign — and  their  reign 
will  last  as  many  years  as  they  shall  cross  the  mirror." 

"The  reigning  king,  Francois  II,  the  husband  of  Marie 
Stuart,  came  first.  His  features  were  contracted  by  ill- 
ness. His  body  seemed  too  heavy  to  be  sustained,  and  his 
cheeks  were  burned  with  fever.  He  walked  a  few 
steps  across  the  room  and  soon  vanished,  without  even 
completing  the  first  year's  passage.  He  remained  just 
long  enough  for  Catherine  to  recognize  the  reigning  king, 
just  enough  to  learn  that  before  the  end  of  a  year  she 
would  mourn  for  her  eldest  son. 

"Charles  IX  appeared  next,  and  after  having  crossed 
the  room  thirteen  and  a  half  times,  he  vanished,  leaving 
a  bloody  cloud  behind  him. 

"The  Due  d"  Anjou,  who  was  to  be  Henrj'  III,  crossed 
fifteen  times  and  then  vanished. 

"Henry  IV,  young  and  healthy,  entered  and  crossed 
twenty  times,  disappearing  at  the  beginning  of  the 
twenty-first.  He  was  immediately  followed  by  a  boy, 
eight  or  nine  years  old,  who  crossed  thirty-seven  times. 

"The  queen,  pale  with  fear  and  anguish,  covered  her 
eyes  with  her  hands,  and  begged  to  see  no  more.  The 
mirror  ceased  to  reflect  the  visions,  and  all  things  became 
invisible  again. 

"If  ces  Messieurs  wish  to  see  the  famous  Ruggieri's 
room,  here  it  is,"  said  our  dramatic  guide,  and  we  awoke 


^^d^kkn/ 


\<^dh%^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  X 


y .  i 


V .  r 


from  the  dream  which  her  story  had  produced,  to  leave 
this  haunted  chamber  and  to  pass  on  to  its  neighbor. 
Yes,  here  it  is!  Let  us  look  hastily  through  the  ancient 
and  historically  haunted  apartment  and  see  the  cabalistic 
signs  above  the  chimney.  Let  us  take  in,  at  a  glance, 
the  tapestries  and  walls,  and  let  us  leave  these  rooms,  so 
sad  in  aspect  and  in  recollections. 

The  door  is  closed  carefully  behind  us,  a  new  one 
opened,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  the  gallery  overlooking 
the  chapel. 

A  feeling  of  admiration,  of  sanctity  almost,  impresses 
itself  upon  the  visitor  as  he  enters  this  graceful  and 
impressive  chapel  of  Chaumont.  The  light,  softened  by 
the  old  stained-glass  windows,  spreads  a  mysterious  and 
haloed  charm  over  all.  The  carved  altar  rises  in  front, 
almost  at  the  feet,  as  we  stand  in  the  balcony  overhanging 
the  whole.  On  the  right  is  an  oaken  throne  with  its 
canopy  above,  while  over  it  hangs  the  red  cardinal's 
chapeau  of  George  d'Amboise.  On  the  left,  facing  the 
throne,  is  a  very  fine  ivory  Christ  of  a  Spanish  or 
Italian  school.  It  stands  out  in  relief  against  a  deep  red 
velvet  ground.  Large  silk  banners  of  many  families 
hang  from  the  walls  above,  like  flags  taken  from  an 
enemy  and  brought  there  as  an  ex-voto — a  votive  offering 
to  God.  Benches  and  prie-Dieu  are  arranged  below,  on 
either  side  of  the  central  aisle,  and  are  covered  with  pearl 
gray  velvet,  on  which  the  two  C's  of  Chaumont  (OC) 
stand  out  in  crimson.  Venetian  lanterns  made  of  gold 
stand  high  above  these  benches,  and  must,  when  evening 
comes,  spread  a  softer  light  even  than  that  which  now 
harmonizes  the  effect,  enhancing  the  stone  carvings  and 
their  purity  of  style  by  the  shadows,  here  deep,  here  light. 

The  Comte  could  not  help  saying  to  me  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  how  much  he  admired  the  chapel.  "It  is 
the  most  perfect,"  he  said,  "if  not  in  detail  at  least 
taken    as    a    whole,     of    all    the    private    chapels     of 


T ,  T 


f .  y 


T .  V 


t'lIA'IM'.AI'     l)i:    (11. \ 


H  >.\  I-  ^1    Ix  -  I  .(  )|  iv-  !■ 


C  H  A  U  M  O  N  T 


T .  1 


r ,  T 


Y .  i 


-••      -■-  It/    Touraine.      There    is    about    it,   around    it,    an    air  of    lu   .:-       ,-. 

4  J  4  iH  completion  which  gives  a  wonderful  satisfaction  to  ,  3Q  4  i  4 
the  eye.  There  is  a  general  harmony  (in  taste  and 
style,  as  well  as  in  arrangement),  which  does  not  fail  to 
leave  its  good  impression.  The  chapel  is  beautifully 
ornamented,  without  being  heavily  so.  It  gives  a  sensa- 
tion of  the  quiet  and  prayerful  life,  without  overpowering 
one  by  its  richness.  We  feel  as  if  centuries  had  passed 
over  it  all,  leaving  behind  them  new  treasures,  brought 
by  the  queens,  the  mistresses  of  kings,  the  cardinals  and 
lords  and  craftsmen,  who  have  in  turn  inhabited  the 
chateau.  They  have  harmonized  and  mellowed  with  the 
hand  of  time  the  colors  of  the  velvets,  as  well  as  of  the 
embroideries,  which  may  have  been  the  work  even  of 
Diane  de  Poitiers  when  she  was  mourning  her  royal 
lover  in  the  tower  beyond." 

Our  guide  had  been  watching  the  Comte  as  he  spoke, 
and  bowing  her  head  from  time  to  time  in  acquiescence. 
And  the  almost  inarticulate  remarks  which  she  let  fall  the 
while  might,  on  a  careful  study,  have  been  translated  in 
a  chance,  "Oui,  vrai; — vraiment.     C'est  bien  vrai." 

"But  ce  Monsieur  is  perhaps  a  little  tired  still?"  she 
inquired,  looking  at  me  in  a  very  sympathizing  manner. 
"Perhaps  will  he  be  glad  to  have  his  little  glass  of 
brandy?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  was  my  ver>'  hasty  reply,  and  I  ran 
down  the  great  flight  of  stairs,  for  fear  that  she  might 
change  her  mind. 

A  majordomo,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  long  whiskers,  was 
comfortably  engaged  in  regilding  some  flower  baskets 
below.  Our  guide  seemed  to  have  a  most  surprising 
influence  upon  him,  for  when  she  begged  him  for  some 
brandy  his  sympathy  was  aroused  to  such  an  extent  that 
he  left  baskets,  gilding  powders  and  brushes  in  a 
moment,  and  flew  off  toward  the  mysteries  of  his  office,  -y  . 
*r        V    a     He  soon  returned,  bearing  a  bottle  of   brandy  and  two     S    V       'jT 


r .  V 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

small  glasses,  on  a  silver  tray,  engraved  with  princely 
coronets  and  coats  of  arms.  In  the  meantime  we  had 
been  ushered  into  the  vaulted  dining-room,  which  has 
been  recently  repaired.  It  is  long  and  narrow,  more  like 
a  gallery  or  closed  cloister  than  like  a  dining-room.  It 
opens  upon  the  park,  as  well  as  upon  the  inner  court.  The 
chimney,  which  occupies  the  whole  of  the  further  end,  is 
perhaps  the  most  interesting  portion  of  this  restoration ; 
for  it  is  truly  beautiful.  For  the  rest,  the  tables,  chairs 
and  other  pieces  of  furniture,  whether  for  ornament  or 
use,  were  a  little  below  the  standard,  so  that  we  must 
beg  to  be  excused  from  their  description,  as  the  bottle  of 
brandy,  the  glasses  and  the  tray  are  now  before  us  and 
have  yet  to  restore  us  to  health. 

"I  hope  Monsieur  is  better,"  asked  our  guide,  putting 
her  face,  only  her  face,  through  the  half  open  door. 
Poor  woman!  I  saw  in  her  glance  an  expression  of 
fear,  a  thought  that  may  have  run  through  her  mind,  lest 
we  should  take  the  silver  as  an  accompaniment  to  our 
brandy.  And  I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  turning  to 
the  majordomo,  who  had  retired  to  his  gilding,  and  quot- 
ing one  of  my  countrymen — I  have  forgotten  whom: 
"John,  the  Count  has  come  to  call.  Put  away  the 
spoons."     But  I  refrained,  and  answered  simply: 

"Much  better,  thank  you,  and  if  you  will  permit  us,  we 
will  continue  our  visit  through  the  other  rooms."  I 
was  now  somewhat  refreshed. 

The  part  of  the  chateau  we  were  now  passing  through 
is  one  which  has  been  lately  furnished  with  every  modern 
comfort.  Some  of  the  furniture  is  old,  but  most  of  it  is 
new,  and  the  whole  has  that  air  of  habitation  about 
it,  which  awakens  an  instinctive  feeling  of  cosiness. 
Perhaps  the  artistic  feeling  loses  something  by  it.  Per- 
haps the  artistic  eye  runs  laboriously  over  these  rooms, 
taking  in  at  a  glance  the  new-looking  velvets  and 
brocades,   the  modern  screens,  the  tables  covered  with 


CHAUMONT 

plush  and  ornaments.  Perhaps  it  may  find  too  many 
palms  and  flowers  and  photoj^raphs  about.  We  know 
not.  But  the  feeling  of  home  is  certainly  a  pleasant  one; 
at  least  my  companion  found  it  so,  for  he  immediately 
ensconced  himself  in  one  of  the  velvet  arm-chairs,  which 
looked  even  more  comfortable  than  they  actually  were, 
after  the  stiff  Renaissance  furniture  of  the  opposite  wing. 
A  quantity  of  photographs  were  hanging  upon  screens, 
standing  upon  small  tables,  or  filling  large  bowls  of  old 
china.  A  beautiful  picture  of  a  woman  in  a  ball  dress, 
with  a  quantity  of  diamonds  about  her  neck,  attracted 
our  attention. 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  Comte,  enchanted  to  find  an  old 

acquaintance.     "Why,  this  is  the  Vicomtesse  de !     I 

haven't  seen  her  for  three  years.  How  she  has  changed 
since  her  marriage  I  Dear  me,  dear  me  I ' ' — and  he  passed 
on  to  the  next. 

"What  a  good  likeness  this  is  of  the  Comte  de  X. 
There  is  no  mistaking  him,"  he  continued.  "Howphoto- 
graphs  bring  back  old  faces,  old  associations,  almost  for- 
gotten but  for  these  drawing-room  reminders!  Do  you 
see  this  large  group  here,  taken  upon  a  terrace?  And 
this  other  one  on  the  coach,  and  the  other  upon  the 
lawn?  I  put  a  name  to  each  face,  and  they  remind  me 
of  a  world  of  thoughts  and  pleasures, — a  picnic,  a  hunting 
party,  a  coaching  drive,  a  theatrical  performance,  may  be. 
All  these  photographs  bring  back  the  thousand  recol- 
lections of  an  ideal,  though,  it  may  be,  idle  life  in  the 
midst  of  people  with  whom  we  have  been  thrown,  who 
have  drifted  in  various  directions,  and  who  now  repass 
before  our  eyes,  like  the  glasses  of  a  magic  lantern, — 
representing  a  good  share  of  what  is  called  'la  society 
Fran^aise.  ■  " 

The  Comte  was  in  his  most  amusing  mood,  looking 
over  the  bibelots  in  the  large  salon,  and  caused  no  little 
amusement  to  our  guide,  who  was  smiling  and  looking 

'^5 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  Y 


T .  X 


r.'s 


V .  T 


over  his  shoulder,  as  if  she  knew  the  originals  of  the 
photographs  as  well  as  he.  Each  little  corner  of  the 
room,  each  screen  and  chair,  shaded  by  a  tall  palm, 
seemed  to  remind  him  of  something  or  some  one.  He 
might  have  picked  up  each  photograph,  I  suppose, 
brought  them  to  life,  set  them  in  the  "coins  ^  flirter,"  as 
they  are  called  there,  and  told  us  word  for  word  the  con- 
versations held  by  them  when  they  were  last  there.  As 
he  passed  from  one  place  to  another,  he  was  smiling, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  and  skipping  about,  as  only  a 
Frenchman  knows  how  to  do,  giving  himself  heart  and  soul 
to  the  performance  of  the  smallest  action  and  lending  an  .y  ^.^  ^.^ 
apparently  vital   importance  to  the  most  trivial  gossip.    HA  ■ 

"How  soon  will  you  have  finished  your  inspection?" 
said  I  at  last. 

"As  soon  as  you  wish,"  replied  my  friend.  "But 
I  do  not  see  why  you  are  in  so  great  a  hurrj'  to  leave 
Chaumont.  There  is  much  here  which  is  worthy  of 
notice.  You  will  hardly  find  another  historical  chateau 
in  France,  at  least  among  those  which  are  noted  as  'his- 
torical monuments,'  that  belongs  to  the  proper  people 
and  is  inhabited  in  the  right  manner.  You  may  as 
well  be  noticing  all  this,  while  I  renew  acquaintance 
with  these  photographs.  You  must  remember  that  for 
those  Frenchmen  who  are  so  unfortunate,  or  so  fortunate, 
as  you  like,  to  belong  to  that  class  which  cannot  work 
without  breaking  with  the  prejudices  of  centuries,  you 
must  remember,  I  say,  that  the  most  interesting  part  of 
their  lives  is  in  making,  losing  and  renewing  acquaint- 
ances. As  a  rule,  all  these  acquaintances  belong  to 
the  same  class  and  to  the  same  society.  They  might 
even  be  compared  to  a  great  family,  the  members  of 
which  (although  they  may  sometimes  hate  one  another 
inwardly  from  envy  or  jealousy),  are  still  glad  to  meet 
again,  because  they  are  tied  to  one  another  by  an  ^  •»  .-» 
unbreakable  bond,  that  of  birth.  Well,  I  .suppose  fl  A  § 
126 


C  H  A  U  M  O  N  T 


Y .  Y 


T .  i 


T .  i 


i .  V 


we  must  leave  now,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  put  your 
AnjiloSaxon  blood  to  a  severe  test."  So  saying,  the 
Comtc  cast  a  longing  glance  at  the  photographs  yet 
unseen,  and  taking  my  arm,  he  accompanied  mc  to  the 
court.  We  stopped  under  the  archway  to  give  a  five  franc 
piece  to  our  guide,  who  thanked  us,  with  an  odd  smile 
upon  her  face  which  I  was  at  a  loss  to  explain.  The 
castle  towers  were  soon  behind  us,  and  we  found  our- 
selves between  rows  of  elm  trees,  amid  vases  of  flowers 
overflowing  with  scarlet  geraniums,  and  looking  down 
paths  which  cut  the  lawn.  The  tiny  bells  about  the  necks  of 
the  cattle  answer  each  other;  they  ring,  they  quarrel,  and 
they  prattle  away  like  children ;  while  the  herd,  pushed 
forward  by  a  small  peasant,  assisted  by  a  shepherd's  dog, 
strolls  toward  the  fields  that  are  hidden  away  in  some 
corner  of  the  park.  Slowly  we  descend  the  hill,  giving 
a  last  glance  backward  toward  the  chateau  upon  the  cliff. 
Soon  the  iron  gate  closes  upon  our  retreating  footsteps, 
and  another  summer  morning  has  passed  like  a  dream. 
Another  castle  in  the  air  is  added  to  the  growing  list. 

The  Comte,  still  holding  my  arm,  looked  at  me  and 
whispered,  with  an  air  of  uncommon  importance:  "Do 
you  know,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  am  sure  I  have  seen 
that  woman's  face  before.  I  cannot  say  where,  but  cer- 
tainly somewhere.  Who  knows  if  she  is  not  a  guest  of 
the  chateau,  a  friend  who  has  made  up  her  mind  to  play 
us  a  practical  joke?" 

"I  should  not  be  much  surprised,"  said  I,  "after  what 
you  told  me.  She  seemed  so  perfectly  at  home  in  the 
chateau,  and  had  such  a  talent  for  telling  historical 
stories,  I  had  already  decided  that  she  is  the  leading 
lady  in  all  the  theatrical  comedies  of  Chaumont.  She  was 
much  amused,  both  at  our  personal  remarks  and  at  our 
tip." 

"Dear  me!  What  a  pity  it  is  we  did  not  think  of  this 
before  we  gave  it  to  her,"  exclaimed  the  Comte,  with  true 


i  .  i" 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

French  thrift.    "But,  of  course !    Why  did  I  not  recognize 

her?     It  is  the  Comtesse  de  P and  a  very  clever 

woman  too.  And  now,  quick!  We  must  show  her  that 
we  have  found  her  out. "  Rushing  to  a  gardener  whose 
establishment  was  flourishing  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
we  ordered  a  large  bouquet  of  roses  to  be  sent  to  the 
chateau,  with  the  Corate's  card,  addressed  to  "Madame  la 
Comtesse  de  P- 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  we  left  Chaumont  without 
the  satisfaction  of  hearing  anything  more  of  the  flowers 
or  of  the  Comtesse. 


CHAPTHR    VI 


Tired  of  waiting  for  the  carriage  which  was  to  carry  us 
from  Chaumont  to  Amboise,  we  set  out  on  foot  over  the 
picturesque  road  which  borders  the  beautiful  banks  of  the 
Loire.  If  not  as  verdant  here  as  it  was  from  Blois  to 
Chaumont,  the  scenery  is  far  from  uninteresting^.  The 
towers  of  the  chateau  beetle,  high  above  the  head,  over 
the  cliff  on  our  left.  Our  road  runs  along  a  pretty  hill- 
side which  grows  higher  and  higher  as  we  proceed.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  river  and  parallel  to  it,  the  railroad 
follows  its  bank,  like  a  band  of  steel  that  turns  and  twists 
with  the  stream.  A  cloud  of  white  smoke,  like  a  tuft  of 
feathers,  now  visible  between  the  trees,  now  hidden  by 
the  foliage,  heralds  the  advent  of  a  train.  The  long  line 
of  shaky  white  is  lost  in  the  distance,  and  another  one 
appears  in  its  place,  to  follow  it  in  wild  pursuit. 

Wc  walk  along,  admiring  the  countryside,  so  smiling 
and  fertile  that  it  extends  like  an  immense  English 
garden,  planted  by  a  master  hand.  Great  bunches  of 
trees  are  dotted  about  here  and  there  between  the  farms 
of  diminutive  proportions,  with  their  pointed  roofs  of 
sombre  red.  Little  white  cottages  play  at  hide  and  seek 
behind  their  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers.  The  pastures 
are  dotted  with  cattle,  and  in  the  distance  the  church 
spires  seem  to  rise,  like  needles  from  an  ivory  case. 
Everything  seems  made  to  please  the  eye,  and  everything 
129 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

is  in   such   perfect  harmony   that   we   feel   transported 
almost  into  a  sphere  above,  into  a  higher  world. 

Before  entering  the  little  village  of  Rilly,  we  threw 
ourselves  down  on  the  edge  of  a  slope  to  contemplate  the 
scene,  and  to  think  unconsciously  of  those  things  which 
come  naturally  to  the  mind  when,  lulled  by  an  irresistible 
reverie,  the  body  seems  to  fall  asleep.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances and  in  such  a  mood,  nature  seems  to  contain 
infinite  things — ideals,  which  at  another  hour,  at  another 
moment  perhaps,  might  pass  unnoticed.  A  harmony  of 
notes  is  heard,  discordant  if  separated,  but  of  which  the 
combination  forms  a  perfect  symphonj'.  The  sound  of 
horses'  footsteps  on  the  hard  sandy  road,  the  tinkling  of 
the  tiny  bells  about  their  necks,  the  rattle  of  a  distant 
wheel,  the  wind  among  the  trees,  the  song  of  a  bird 
perched  above  the  head,  all  contribute.  Herds  of  cattle 
moving  slowly  on  the  green  below,  men,  flowers,  and 
even  the  humming  of  a  bee,  join  in  this  rural  symphony; 
and  each  sound  adds  to  the  efiEect.  Perfumes,  at  the  same 
time  sweet  and  aromatic,  such  as  only  summer  and  a 
summer's  day  do  give,  still  the  bodily  faculties,  only  to 
awaken  and  intoxicate  the  more  those  of  the  mind. 
And  as  we  dream  and  dream,  in  this  peaceful  hour,  a  voice 
seems  often  to  whisper  in  the  ear:  "What,  indeed,  has 
life  to  offer  equal  to  this  perfect  harmony?  Ambitions 
of  the  world?  Worldly  loves?  Worldly  gains,  that  after 
all  are  little  gained,  when  they  are  added  up?  What 
ambition,  what  worldly  love  is  more  satisfied  or  satisfy- 
ing than  this  natural  harmony  of  a  summer  day?  What 
moment  in  our  lives  more  happy  than  this  spent  in  an 
idle  dream?" 

The  cracking  of  a  whip  sounds  in  our  ears,  to  break  the 
dream.  A  horse,  at  full  gallop,  stops  suddenly,  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  our  carriage  has  caught  up  with 
us,  so  that  in  climbing  up  into  the  cart  we  descend  from 
our  ideals  to  reality. 

130 


AM  BOISE 

There  is  no  livery  stable  at  Chaumont,  and  the  butcher 
profits  by  the  fact  to  act  as  a  substitute  (at  a  very  hijjh 
price).  The  horse  is  good ;  but  the  cart,  perched  upon  two 
large  wheels,  innocent  of  springs,  and  with  a  wooden  seat 
hanging  from  four  leather  straps,  is  not  as  comfortable  as 
it  might  be.  And  three  on  a  seat  arc  a  little  crowded. 
Our  driver  in  his  blue  blouse  and  black  cap  might  have 
been  twenty,  judging  from  a  face  which  was  frank,  open 
and  full  of  good  will,  not  in  the  least  in  keeping,  be  it 
said,  with  his  station  in  life.  His  physiognomy  was  char- 
acterized by  a  poetic  melancholy,  which  interested  an 
observer,  and  seemed  to  invite  a  search  beneath  the 
surface.  Even  apart  from  this,  we  were  tempted  to 
speak  with  him,  the  better  to  study  the  characteristics 
of  a  peasant  who  was  so  evidently  superior  to  his 
station. 

I  opened  conversation  by  praising  the  qualities  of  his 
horse.  It  is  always  a  sensitive  point  to  those  who  often 
find  the  horse  their  sole  companion.  The  attempt  suc- 
ceeded more  easily  than  I  had  imagined,  and  before  many 
minutes  we  were  friends. 

"Monsieur  likes  this  part  of  the  country?" 

"Yes,  verj-  much.     One  cannot  help  admiring  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  Monsieur,  it  is  a  fine  country.  Everj'thing 
looks  so  green  and  fresh,  and  at  this  time  of  the  year  all 
the  gardens  are  in  flower  and  it  makes  the  air  as  sweet  as 
honey.  Then  the  river  here  is  a  great  thing,  and  the 
chateau.\,  too,  make  a  great  deal  of  difference;  they  are 
so  fine.  Monsieur  has  been  to  visit  Blois  and  Cham- 
bord?" 

"It  is  strange,"  thought  I,  "to  find  so  appreciative  a 
nature  in  the  butcher's  assistant."  That  he  should  have 
noticed  the  artistic  points  about  him,  which  are  usually 
overlooked,  if  not  unknown,  by  the  members  of  his  own 
class,  was  somewhat  curious. 

"And  are  you  of  this  countr>'?"  I  continued,  with  some 
I  -I 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


It 


Y ,  Y 


growing  interest  in  a  character  that  seemed  so  much 
above  its  surroundings. 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  am  from  Sologne,  where  my  mother 
and  father  still  live.  There  is  a  country  that  is  wild  and 
picturesque — forests  everywhere,  and  ponds  and  lakes!  I 
am  always  glad  when  I  can  go  back,  every  two  years, 
to  see  my  parents.  I  have  a  brother,  too,  in  this  part 
of  the  countr)'.     He  is  a  butcher's  assistant  at  Asay. " 

"Oh.     And  does  he  like  it  there?" 

"No,  Monsieur;  we  miss  our  country  people.  They 
are  nicer  than  they  are  here — much  nicer.  And  then, 
they  are  not  so  curious  to  see  strangers  and  to  stare  at 
them.  Ma  foi,  if  I  were  a  stranger  here  I  should  not  much 
like  to  be  so  stared  at.     Did  you  notice  it,  Monsieur?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "and  I  was  about  to  ask  the  rea- 
son for  it.  So  you  do  not  like  it,  either?  I  am  glad  to 
hear  you  say  so.  Are  there  many  chateaux  near  by?  I 
am  rather  interested  to  know." 

"A  great  many.  Monsieur,"  replied  the  boy;  and  his 
countenance  lighted  up  as  he  thought  of  them,  with  evi- 
dent pleasure.  "There  is  one  at  Rilly,  and  also  some 
bourgeois  houses  and  villas.  One  of  them  is  very  pretty. 
I  was  passing  it  a  week  ago,  and  I  stopped  to  have  a  look 
at  it  and  to  smell  the  roses.  They  were  falling  down 
almost  into  the  road.  Ma  foi,  I  couldn't  resist  picking 
one  or  two;"  and  our  poetic  companion  smiled  as  the 
thought  returned  to  him.  "There,  Monsieur;  there  is  the 
very  house,  now,"  said  he,  as  we  turned  a  corner  in  the 
road.  We  looked  in  the  direction  to  which  he  had  pointed, 
and  saw  in  the  centre  of  a  lot  of  land  (less  than  half 
an  acre),  a  diminutive  villa  whose  walls,  newly  covered 
with  pink  plaster,  were  relieved  by  the  shutters  of  the 
windows,  painted  a  brilliant  green.  In  the  little  garden 
and  on  the  grass,  which  looked  as  if  it  were  clipped  at 
least  once  a  day,  stood  several  statues  of  painted  terra 
cotta.     A  soldier,  as  large  as  life,  stood  guarding  a  minia- 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


-». 


A  M  BOISE 


A  A     j3      ture  rockery.     Paul  and  Virginia  were  nearby,  beneath  a 

*  ■•  dripping  palm  leaf,  and  formed  but  the  vanguard  of  a 
little  regiment  of  statuary,  painted  in  the  most  brilliant 
and  inappropriate  colors.  There,  too,  were  the  stiff  beds 
of  flowers  and  the  roses  which  our  friend  had  so  admired, 
"roses  de  Bengale,'  whose  pearl-touched  petals  fell  over 
the  railings  of  the  gate. 

"It   is  very   fine,"   he   added    as  we    passed.     "How 

hapjiy  any  one  must  be  to  have  a  house  like  that!"     I 

could  not  help  remarking,   with  a  certain  sadness,   the 

earnestness  with  which  our  companion  envied  this  gaudy 

*i"       *i*   fe/     home.     Poor  youth!     So  this  was  his  ideal,  these  four    lu   ^-^       _-^ 

*  i  ^  n  walls,  these  grotesque  statues  with  their  fantastic  colors;  (fl  A  ^ 
and  he  was  showing  it  with  all  the  pride  of  his  simple, 
uneducated  nature.  It  was  a  curious  revelation  that 
such  gaudiness  and  lack  of  taste  should  touch  the 
higher  chord,  should  produce  the  same  effect  upon  a 
nature  untaught  but  instinctively  artistic,  which  calm 
and  harmonious  coloring  wnll  produce  upon  those  who 
have  been  educated.  For  him,  a  house  like  this,  where 
he  could  be  surrounded  by  flowers  and  fancy-colored 
statues,  where  he  might  bring  his  sweetheart,  was  hap- 
piness.    And   we? — we  would   rather   have    lived    there 

A  A     19     ^"   ^^^  fields   below,   beneath   the  trees  and  beside  the      g      jT       V 

*  ''^     whispering  stream,  the  sky  for  a  roof  and  nature  for  the     TNi     "     i    • 
walls. 

By  this  time  we  had  passed  the  village  of  Mesnes,  and 
were  approaching  that  of  Chargd.  On  the  left  arose 
high  perpendicular  cliffs  of  soft  stone,  so  soft  that  it  was 
little  more  than  clay.  Masses  of  briars  crowned  their 
summits,  and  fell  down  in  long  arms  over  the  jagged 
stones.  Here  and  there  one  could  see  great  caves,  fur- 
rowing the  surface  in  all  directions,  and  many  of  these 
were  built  up,  either  as  cellars  to  hold  the  wine  which  is 
*!*  "A*  W  made  from  the  grapes  above,  or  as  houses  for  the  peas-  tu  «-»  «•» 
m    t    %     ^     ants.     In  the  distance,  a  mass  of  buildings  looked  as  if  it    fli     ^    ^    J 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


might  be  Amboise,  and  yet  one  was  in  doubt  about  the 
place  until  one  fairly  stopped  before  the  "Hotel  Lion 
d'Or,"  which  overlooked  the  bridge.  Here  we  alighted, 
and  bidding  good-bye  to  the  poet  butcher's  boy,  we  left 
him  to  return  to  Chaumont. 

"Is  he  happy?"  I  asked  my  friend,  as  we  stood  look- 
ing at  his  retreating  figure,  "this  man  whose  tastes  are 
so  much  the  opposite  of  his  life?"  "No,"  was  our  mutual 
reply.  "How  could  he  be  happy  in  the  midst  of  men 
with  whom  he  has  not  a  single  idea  in  common?  How 
could  he  exchange  a  feeling  with  his  daily  associates?" 
And  my  companion,  the  Comte,  who  had  been  listening 
reflectively,  continued  to  philosophize. 

"There  is  a  man,"  said  he,  "tied  to  a  life  the 
very  opposite  of  all  his  aspirations,  one  who  might  yet 
accomplish  better  things,  could  he  but  find  a  single  soul 
about  him  to  whom  he  might  express  his  ideals.  And 
what  sort  of  chance  has  he  to  rise  above  his  life?  None 
whatever. ' ' 

"I  have  often  thought,"  said  I,  "that  the  most 
unhappy  natures  in  this  world  were  those,  that,  bom  with 
delicate  instincts,  imagination  and  high  aspirations,  are 
placed  in  circumstances  which  bind  them  down  to  a 
mechanical  existence,  in  an  iron  grasp  that  leaves  them 
no  chance  of  gaining  their  liberty.  We  find  these  tem- 
peraments in  ever>'  stage  of  society,  and  often,  perhaps 
most  often,  in  its  upper  classes.  They  are  as  unhappy 
there  as  in  other  states  of  life,  because  their  ambitions, 
desires  and  aspirations  are  in  direct  proportion  to  their 
position  in  the  world.  They  are  so  delicately  formed,  and 
their  constitutions  are  often  strung  in  so  high  a  vein,  that 
it  is  impossible  for  them  to  pursue  the  beaten  track  of 
common  men.  They  must  needs  wander  from  it,  and 
often  they  are  like  the  bird  which  flies  from  branch  to 
branch,  so  that  it  ends  by  losing  the  way  back  to  its  nest." 

"What  you  say  is  very  true,"  replied  the  Comte.  "I 
134 


A  M  BOISE 

have  seen  so  many  cases  of  that  kind.  As  a  rule  they 
arc  misunderstooil,  save  by  the  few,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
the  vulgar  they  are  light  and  aimless  characters  with- 
out an  end  in  life.  They  arc  set  down  as  impracticable, 
because  they  do  not  accomplish,  or  more  often  because 
they  do  not  seem  to  accomplish,  anything  material.  I 
have  known  men  whose  whole  lives  were  thrown  away, 
because  they  had  the  misfortune  to  be  bom  in  a  class, 
whose  minds  were  rude  and  judged  them  only  by 
their  financial  success  or  failure  and  could  not  see 
that  they  really  lived  another,  higher  life.  I  have 
seen,  I  say,  these  lives  wasted,  choked  to  death  by  their 
surroundings,  which  were  as  arid  as  the  desert  is  to  a 
tropical  plant.  It  is  one  of  the  saddest  things  in  human 
nature,"  the  Comte  continued,  thoughtfully,  "to  see 
thus,  a  plant  which  is  rare  and  worthy  of  the  greatest 
care  and  encouragement,  left  often  to  wither  or  to  die 
a  slow  and  hopeless  death.  It  is  sad  to  see  its  hopes 
vanish  one  by  one,  its  struggles  for  a  more  worthy  exist- 
ence fading  away,  and  its  higher  instincts  killed,  in  the 
effort  to  accommodate  itself  to  a  life  barren  of  all  that 
it  naturally  loves  and  longs  for!" 

I  was  growing  interested  in  these  reflections  which 
seemed  to  bear  upon  so  large  a  portion  of  humanity. 
The  nature  of  our  hypothetical  man — or  woman,  it 
mattered  not,  the  cases  were  the  same  —  as  well  as 
his  position  in  the  world,  had  awakened  thoughts  and 
inquiries  in  both  our  minds.  This  example  of  a  soul 
born  in  an  alien  soil,  this  simple  youth  and  his  chance 
remarks,  had  been  enough  to  bring  to  my  mind,  as 
well  as  to  that  of  the  Comte,  a  state  of  existence 
which  we  had  both  observed.  I  thought,  with  pity, 
of  this  nature,  which  was  thus  forced  to  suffer  for 
its  position  as  well  as  its  education.  For  the  educa- 
tion of  the  French  lower  classes  gives,  as  in  the  case 
we  have    just   seen,   enough    to  tell   of   better  things. 


^a^^^^K 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

But  it  leaves  the  poor  peasant,  or  workman,  without  the 
means  of  procuring  them,  and  yet  dissatisfied.  As  we 
drew  closer  to  the  little  table,  with  its  stiiT  glasses  filled 
with  rum  and  water,  I  could  not  refrain  from  laying 
before  the  Comte  a  question,  a  theory,  which  I  had  often 
considered  myself. 

"What  if  one  of  these  souls  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,"  said  I,  "a  soul  made  for  better  things, — 
things  which  remain  latent,  perhaps,  while  it  battles  with 
the  vvTorld  alone,  what  if  it  find  another  kindred  soul? 
What  if  it  discovers,  by  some  kindly  Providence,  in 
another  human  being  the  complement  of  all  its  aspira- 
tions, all  its  ambitions?" 

The  Comte  looked  at  me  for  some  time  without  speak- 
ing, as  if  to  thoroughly  take  in  my  hypothesis.  But  at 
length  he  answered : 

"Then  I  should  say  undoubtedly  that  these  two  souls 
had  found  happiness.  They  will,  if  circumstances  per- 
mit, join  together  in  a  sort  of  immaterial  marriage,  if  one 
might  use  the  term,  and  will  go  through  this  world  arm 
in  arm.  It  will  probably  lose  for  them  much  of  its 
harshness  and  its  insincerity.  They  will  find  (if  they  are 
as  you  have  described  them  in  your  hypothesis)  that 
good  which  lies  latent  in  all  things.  For  they  must 
inevitably  search  for  it,  since  they  long  for  a  more 
perfect  and  a  higher  existence  than  the  one  around  them. 
They  will,  if  time  permits,  become  great  together,  while 
either  one  alone  might  have  lived  and  died  unknown. 
For  such  is  the  force  of  a  pure  affection  (which  must  be  the 
necessary  result  of  two  such  natural  affinities),  that  it  is 
bound  to  produce  greatness,  if  only  from  its  very  power. 
These  two  natures,  these  beings,  these  souls,  as  you  have 
termed  them,  will  become  great  together;  tasting  not 
alone  of  that  greatness  which  the  world  recognizes,  but  of 
that  which  is  great  in  itself  and  for  itself,  the  greatness 
that  is  found  in  the  child  who  goes  straight  toward  its 
136 


A  M  B  O  I S  E 

settled  end  because  the  opinions  of  men  do  not  exist  for 
it  nor  influence  its  decisions."' 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  I  replied,  "whether  this  would 
be  so  or  not.  I  have  often  argued  in  my  own  mind 
whether,  in  the  case  of  such  a  possible  affinity  of  two 
minds — such  a  Platonic  friendship,  be  it  in  any  class  of 
society  or  life — whether  these  souls  might  not  become 
intellectually  satisfied  with  one  another,  and  end  by  being 
sufficient  to  themselves.  They  would  find,  it  is  true,  a 
great  contentment  in  one  another's  company.  They  would 
have  a  progressing  influence  upon  one  another,  which 
might  become,  in  time,  almost  sublime,  but  which,  for  its 
very  purity  and  light,  the  world  would  certainly  mis- 
understand. Therefore,  in  arguing  with  myself  upon  this 
ideal  relationship,  I  have  often  thought  that  the  mis- 
understanding of  the  world,  in  this  self-absorption  of 
the  two  minds,  might  defeat  its  own  object  rather  than 
produce  greatness,  as  you  have  said." 

"They  must  not  allow  the  world  to  misunderstand 
them,"  returned  the  Comte,  "for  then  they  would  be 
unable  to  accomplish  much  of  what  they  would  do.  Yet 
how  many  men  who  have  stood  out  upon  the  pinnacles  of 
the  world's  history  have  been  misunderstood  for  this  very 
reason!  True  greatness  will  never  be  thoroughly  under- 
stood until  the  mind  of  the  world  is  great  enough  to 
realize  and  to  recognize  that  which  is  often  overlooked, 
or,  as  you  say,  misunderstood." 

"You  are  right,"  said  I,  "and  yet,  if  one  is  misunder- 
stood by  those  around  one — I  care  not  whether  you  take 
the  butcher's  boy  who  is  going  back  there  to  a  sphere 
for  which  he  is  not  created,  or  if  you  take  the  statesman 
and  his  own  class — it  must  always  be  the  same;  it  must 
always  be  difficult  to  be  useful  to  society.  For  in 
fact  society  in  itself  would  become  insupportable  to  the 
individual.  How  many  of  us  have  felt  in  dififerent  ways 
a  certain  distaste  for  the  noise  of  town  and  for  the  society 
'37 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  Y 


T .  Y 


r .  T 


V .  T 


of  ordinary  men  or  of  simple  acquaintances,  after  living 
in  the  country,  far  from  all  noise,  all  scandal  and  all  idle 
talk!  As  we  return,  we  are  inclined  to  say  to  ourselves: 
'It  is  indeed  useless  for  us  to  endeavor  to  associate  with 
those  whose  ideas  we  care  not  to  share  and  who  may  not 
share  ours. '  This,  then,  is  just  the  evil  which  is  likely  to 
befall  these  two  souls,  or  rather  it  is  the  evil  which  I  fear 
might  easily  do  so.  They  would  aspire  to  be  great  in  the 
world,  and  yet  they  would  despise  it." 

"I  think  that  you  are  taking  an  extreme  case,"  replied 
my  friend.  "However,  I  understand  your  theory,  and  it 
is  a  very  true  one,  so  true,  indeed,  that  it  could  hardly  be  \u  ^-^  ,-» 
called  a  theory  at  all.  But  if  these  two  souls  be  well  S  ^  A 
directed;  if,  without  being  absolutely  absorbed  in  one 
another,  they  still  retain  their  original  and  highly  elevated 
strength  and  are  unshaken  in  their  course,  then  indeed 
they  may  conceive  and  do  great  things.  Why,  you  ask? 
Because  they  have  acquired  true  convictions  and  have 
risen  above  the  doubts  and  fears,  occasioned,  not  infre- 
quently, by  an  ill-directed  education,  because  they  are 
actuated  by  an  immense,  a  purely  spiritual  love." 

The  Comte  finished  his  glass  of  rum  and  water,  and  as 
we  arose  to  seek  the  chateau  that  stood  high  above  the 
hotel  behind  us,  he  continued: 

"It  is  odd  that  we  have  both  been  impressed  by  this 
poetic  nature  in  an  humble  form.  So  delicate  an 
instinct  is  assuredly  out  of  place  in  that  sphere  of 
life.  Nevertheless,  he  is  only  an  example  of  what  we 
see  about  us  every  day  in  France.  A  peasant,  born 
to  the  humblest  class  of  society  which  we  possess, 
there  are  instincts  and  qualities  latent  in  him  which 
it  would  be  fatal  to  encourage  or  even  to  develop. 
His  lot  in  life  is  such  that  he  would  rarely  find  an 
opportunity  of  making  use  of  them,  and  he  would  soon 
become  dissatisfied  and  unhappy.  I  believe  that  it  is  his  ^U  ■•V  -T- 
education  which  is  largely  to  blame,  for  the  present  sys-  ^  4  i  ^ 
'38 


r .  T 


A  M  B  O  I S  E 


Y .  i 


T .  V 


i  .  V 


tern  gives  to  him  only  the  knowledge  of  things  which  he 
cannot  obtain,  and  leaves  him  there,  without  the  desire  to 
return  to  the  plow  or  the  shovel,  and  yet  unfitted  to 
proceed.  I  believe  that  such  an  education  is  often  a  great 
evil  in  our  lower  classes.  You  may  start  at  hearing  me 
denounce  knowledge  in  this  manner,  but  1  think  our  fore- 
fathers had  more  wisdom  in  their  ignorance  than  we 
have  often  in  our  new-fangled  notions  and  our  excessive 
education.  Educate  those  who  are  in  the  proper  position 
to  use  knowledge  for  their  fellow  men,  and  leave  those 
to  their  natural  occupation  who  are  better  at  the  plow 
than  at  the  pen!" 

As  my  friend  finished  speaking,  it  began  to  rain,  and 
yet  we  had  lingered  so  long  over  our  rum  and  our  specu- 
lations, that  the  chateau  still  remained  above,  unvisited, 
unseen. 

"Where  was  it,  indeed?  There,  straight  above  the 
head,  and  if  we  had  taken  the  trouble  to  look  over  the 
roof  of  our  hotel,  we  would  have  seen  its  ornamented 
windows  and  its  pointed  roofs.  A  great  mass  of  walls 
and  fortifications  rises  out  of  the  narrow,  picturesque 
streets  of  the  town.  A  steep  and  rather  shabby  avenue 
winds  up  to  a  gateway  in  the  walls,  seeming  almost  like 
a  giant's  ladder.  The  details  of  a  Gothic  chapel  rise  up 
against  the  sky  on  our  right,  and,  in  short — we  are  disap- 
pointed. Is  it  the  rain?  We  cannot  say;  but  Amboise, 
though  in  a  matchless  situation  upon  the  Loire,  seems  sad 
and  dirty,  like  a  beautiful  face  covered  with  spots  and 
freckles.  This  castle,  like  a  crowning  coronet  to  the 
little  town,  seems,  in  a  way,  almost  out  of  tune.  It  is 
patched  with  stones  as  yet  too  white  for  those  which 
have  been  left  behind.  And  it  is  almost  with  regret  that 
we  mount  the  steep  incline  leading  to  the  inner  court  of 
the  chateau. 

The  chapel  first  attracts  the  attention.  It  is  one  of  the 
"chef  d'oeuvres"  of  Gothic  art;  but  it  seems  to  strike  us, 
>39 


V .  T 


V ,  S 


( .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 

we  hardly  know  why,  as  if  cut  (like  some  forms  of  lace) 
in  a  point  that  is  too  delicate,  somewhat  too  fine.  The 
flounces  of  the  stone  lacework  lining  the  walls  of  the 
interior  seem  especially  to  be  woven  in  a  detail  almost 
too  light  for  a  chapel — almost  too  frivolous,  if  one  may 
use  the  term.  They  resemble  Valenciennes  lace,  though 
perhaps  the  imitation  more  than  the  real.  They  strike 
one  as  too  white  at  first,  in  spite  of  the  wonderful 
purity  of  the  whole  interior.  One  would  have  sug- 
gested, perhaps,  a  bath  in  some  softening  dye,  to  turn 
their  whiteness  into  a  darker  hue. 

A  black  marble  slab  beneath  the  feet  bears  the  inscrip- 
tion: "A  Leonard  de  Vinci."  Beneath  these  stones  his 
body  is  supposed  to  lie,  and  yet  in  looking  at  them  one  is 
inclined  to  think  of  legends  rather  more  than  of  reality. 
The  whole  chapel  gives  one  the  unusual  impression  of 
a  modem  work  in  ancient  garb.  iloreover  a  tree, 
whose  thick  and  clumsy  branches  burst  out  on  every  side, 
stands  in  front  of  the  doors — for  there  are  two  of  these, 
one  beside  the  other.  As  if  determined  to  impede  the 
view,  it  succeeds  in  hiding  almost  completely  the  bas- 
relief  above  them,  which  represents  St.  Hubert  hunting 
the  deer,  and  the  apparition  of  the  cross  between  two 
antlers.  The  chapel  itself  is  one  of  the  creations  of 
Charles  VIII,  and  is  interesting,  apart  from  its  perfec- 
tion, as  being  an  example,  and  a  remarkable  one,  of 
French  architecture  before  it  had  felt  the  influence  of  the 
Italian  school.  As  it  was  dedicated  to  St.  Hubert  and 
intended  as  a  hunting  chapel,  where  the  king  might  hear 
a  hasty  mass  of  an  autumn  morning,  the  carving  every- 
where is  suggestive  of  its  object.  The  Gothic  detail 
branches  out  like  the  antlers  of  a  deer.  And  in  fact, 
this  is  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  decoration.  The  art 
with  which  these  emblems  are  adroitly  disguised  in  the 
graceful  ensemble  has  given  to  the  chapel,  more  than 
anything  else,  its  importance. 
140 


AMBOISE 

An  indiflfcront  postern,  with  a  few  scattered  flowers 
around  its  wall,  looks,  in  comparison  with  the  beauty  of 
the  chapel,  more  like  thd  public  sejuare  of  a  provincial 
town.  But  we  will  be  impartial  and  say  that  the  pano- 
rama which  unfolds  itself  below  the  terrace  is  indeed 
fairylike.  To-day,  especially,  it  looks  as  if  a  gentle 
covering  of  gauze  had  been  thrown  over  its  luxuriant 
face,  and  as  we  stand  on  this  historic  terrace,  we  see  the 
first  vanguards  of  the  "brouillard  de  la  Loire,"  so  well 
known  in  this  region,  already  veiling  the  distant  horizon. 
Perhaps  it  was  just  such  a  day  as  this  when  a  young  and 
brilliant  princess,  whom  the  world  has  known  as  Marie 
Stuart,  standing  on  this  same  terrace  and  looking  at  the 
scene  before  us  now,  cried,  as  she  gazed  upon  it: 
"France!  France!  Doux  pays  de  France!"  The  words 
were  uttered  on  the  eve  of  her  return  to  Scotland, 
when  she  was  already  the  widow  of  Francois  II,  though 
but  seventeen  years  old.  Well  might  she  exclaim  in 
admiration  at  this  sight!  The  soft  mist  harmonizes  with 
the  varied  shades  of  green.  It  brings  each  object  nearer 
to  the  eye,  and  mingles  land  and  water,  while  it  envelopes 
all,  as  in  the  first  kiss  of  love.  The  sharp  outlines  of  the 
landscape  fade  away.  The  eyes  grow  heavy  with  their 
foggy  weight.  They  fall,  half  closed,  and  distinguish 
only  a  vague  ensemble  of  gray  and  green. 

The  linden  trees  above  the  head  grow  like  some  CJothic 
gallery,  supported  upon  shortened  columns  of  a  darker 
marble.  Their  branches,  closely  clipped,  and  on  which 
the  butterflies  of  a  summer  have  now  left  but  fragments 
of  shapeless  leaves,  rival  even  the  lacework  and  the  carv- 
ing of  the  chapel.  The  fog  has  changed  to  rain,  which 
adds  to  their  effect,  while  it  falls  in  a  heavy  drenching 
downpour — a  perfect  deluge  that  wets  one  through  and 
through.  The  long  gargoyles  of  the  roof  catch  the  falling 
water,  spouting  it  far  from  the  wall,  and  as  they  drip, 
they  dig  deep  circular  basins  in  the  sand. 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Y ,  T 


T .  i 


r .  i 


Y .  Y 


But  let  us  forget  the  rain.  Let  us,  if  possible,  imagine 
it  replaced  by  sunshine  and  a  heaven  as  blue  as  it  is  now 
dark  and  lowering.  Let  us  leave  that  enervating  and 
persistent  odor  which  hovers  ever  about  antiquities,  his- 
tory and  legends ;  let  us  leave  to  it  the  care  of  pushing 
from  the  sky  the  last  fleecy  clouds  that  linger  in  the 
horizon.  Let  us  endeavor  to  picture  such  a  day,  as  we 
enter  these  time-torn  walls,  where  the  modem  has  tried 
so  hard  to  drive  out  the  ancient  art,  where  these  two  still 
fight  and  battle  for  the  upper  hand, — where  they  roll 
together  in  the  dust,  linked  in  a  fierce  embrace  that 
wounds  and  almost  ruins  both  of  them.  \  u      • 

Some  of  the  remaining  stones  might  tell  us,  perhaps,     h      A  A 

of  Charles  VII  calling  "le  Conn^table  de  Richmond"  to  ' 

his  rescue  in  1440.  And  in  one  of  these  lofty  chambers 
also,  Louis  XI,  the  tyrant  of  "Plessis  les  Tours,"  insti- 
tuted the  order  of  St.  Michel,  whose  collar,  with  its  fa- 
mous golden  shells,  emblazoned  so  many  escutcheons  of 
his  time.  The  order  was  abolished  during  the  Revo- 
lution in  1793;  it  came  to  life  again  in  the  Restoration 
of  1815,  and  became  extinct  in  1S30. 

Within  the  walls  of  Amboise,  Charles  VIII  was  bom, 
"he  who  would  have  been  a  poet  had  he  not  been  a 
king."  The  Prince  of  Wales  and  Marguerite  d'Anjou 
were  his  sponsors  at  the  royal  baptism,  and  in  1483,  when 
but  thirteen  years  of  age,  he  was  betrothed  to  Marguerite 
de  Bourgoyne,  then  only  five.  From  that  "bouquet  of 
architecture"  in  sunny  Italy,  which  was  soon  to  give  its 
fairest  flowers  to  the  French  Renaissance,  Charles  VIII 
picked  the  first  bud,  and  brought  it  to  Amboise.  He  built 
the  towers  which  were  called  "the  Seven  Virtues,"  and 
which  rose  to  a  height  of  ninety  feet  above  the  street.  In 
one  of  these  a  gradual  incline  winds  its  way  up  (in  lieu 
of  a  staircase)  to  the  top,  thus  allowing  a  horse  and  rider 
to  gain  the  terrace  from  the  town.     There  this  ancient  ^.^ 

tower  stands  to-day,  like  a  giant  sentinel  guarding  the     CT     A  A 

142 


Y .  Y 


A  M  B  O  1 S  E 


T ,  Y 


T .  V 


r .  i 


Y .  V 


souvenir  of  its  king.  As  years  of  time  have  thrown  a 
sombre  cloak  over  the  straij;ht  and  martial  lines — a  cloak 
which,  owinjj  to  the  restoration  above,  seems  now  to  have 
fallen  from  the  shoulders — it  has  assumed  a  soul  of  poetry, 
like  him  who  gave  it  birth.  The  "machicoulis"  still  remain 
above,  uncovered;  but  they  no  longer  flow  with  boiling 
oil,  to  burn  the  heads  of  media-val  enemies.  They  live, 
to-day,  an  idle  life  and  are  but  souvenirs  of  the  past. 

Close  to  the  linden  trees,  which  cover  the  terrace  on 
this  side  of  the  chateau,  and  overlooking  the  river,  is  a 
low  doorway,  whose  massive  framework  of  stone  makes 
it  look  peculiarly  heavy.  The  crowned  porcupine  of 
Louis  XII  is  above  it,  in  bas-relief,  and  was  placed 
there  shortly  after  the  doorway  had  become  famous, 
as  the  cause  of  Charles  VIII's  death.  At  that  time 
the  game  of  racquets  was  a  favorite  pursuit  at  Am- 
boise.  The  racquet  courts  were  situated  in  the  empty 
moats,  which  were  reached  only  by  a  staircase  leading 
from  this  doorway.  One  day  the  king,  on  his  way  to 
them,  passed  under  the  doorway,  and  struck  his  head  so 
violently  against  the  top,  that  he  fell,  unconscious,  upon 
the  steps.  On  hearing  the  noise  occasioned  by  the  king's 
fall,  the  valets  and  gentlemen-in-waiting  hurried  to  the 
scene,  but  only  to  find  their  master  mortally  wounded. 
The  dying  king  was  carried  into  one  of  the  galleries  of 
the  chateau  and  laid  upon  a  couch.  He  expired  shortly 
afterwards.  Thus  a  brilliant  future  and  a  reign  that 
had  promised  many  things  were  cut  suddenly  in  twain  by 
his  untimely  death.  It  is  said  that  his  wife,  Anne  de 
Bretagne,  was  in  such  an  agony  of  grief  at  his  death  that 
she  neither  ate  nor  drank  for  three  days,  and  wished  to 
follow  him  to  the  tomb.  But  we  fear  that  the  ill-fated 
king  carried  with  him  to  the  tomb  the  shadow  only  of  his 
lamenting  queen,  for  the  next  year  Anne  de  Bretagne 
married  Louis  XII,  king  of  France. 

Louis  XII  carried  on  the  work  of  his  predecessors,  at 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Amboise,  and  built  the  great  gallery  and  the  balcony 
which  faced  "le  Convent  des  Minimes."  Francois  I, 
called  often  the  "king  of  chivalry,"  is  responsible  for  the 
apartments  of  the  king  and  queen,  and  Catherine  de 
Medici  added  an  isolated  chamber  built  upon  four  col- 
umns. This  was  said  to  have  been  the  result  of  Rug- 
gieri's  prophecy  at  Chaumont  that  "Catherine  should 
fear  the  fall  of  a  great  edifice."  She  built  this  isolated 
chamber,  without  even  an  aperture,  thinking  to  be  safe 
there  from  the  fall  of  Amboise.  But  little  did  she  dream, 
in  her  literal  translation  of  the  astrologer's  words,  that  the 
"great  edifice"  he  referred  to  was  none  other  than  the 
House  of  Valois. 

Amboise,  situated  upon  the  butting  cliff,  and  surrounded 
on  three  sides  by  the  forest,  was  a  favorite  hunting  place 
of  Francois  I.  Indeed,  he  was  wounded  there  once  by  a 
large  thorn,  which  pierced  his  boot  while  in  the  forest. 
It  occurred  during  the  festivities  in  honor  of  the  marriage 
of  the  Due  de  Lorraine  with  Rene(S  de  Bourbon.  The  court 
was  assembled  in  all  its  brilliancy  and  pomp,  and  the 
king,  then  but  twenty  years  of  age  and  in  the  first  flush 
of  his  youthful  power,  amused  himself  daily  by  keeping 
up  the  interest  of  the  court  with  some  new  entertainment. 
One  day,  a  wild  boar  was  taken  in  the  forest,  and  the  king, 
on  learning  it,  gave  orders  for  the  captured  animal  to  be 
brought  into  the  inner  court  of  the  chateau  and  there  let 
loose.  He  gathered  about  him  the  6\ite  of  his  youthful 
court,  and  began  the  hunt  amid  the  blowing  of  the  hunt- 
ers' horns  and  the  applause  of  the  ladies  from  the  apart- 
ments overlooking  the  court.  The  boar,  at  first  confused 
and  dazed  by  this  unaccustomed  scene,  remained  immov- 
able. "By  St.  Hubert!"  quoth  the  king,  "we  would  say 
the  boar  were  frightened,  were  he  not,  like  my  lords 
perhaps,  held  victim  to  the  ladies'  glances  from  the  win- 
dows!" But  it  appeared  that  he  was  neither  one  nor 
the  other.  For  maddened  by  the  dogs  and  men,  he 
144 


A  M  H  O  1  S  K 


^;;^ 


became  so  fierce  that  at  last  he  broke  through  the  door 
leadinjj  to  the  apartments  where  the  ladies  were  clapping; 
their  hands  and  encouraging  their  favorites.  Excited  by 
the  frijjhtened  cries,  he  burst  into  the  interior  of  the 
castle,  and  would  have  done  some  mischief  had  not  the 
king,  though  he  was  still  wounded,  anticipated  him. 
Placing  himself  in  front  of  the  boar,  "with  an  energj- 
worthy  of  a  king,"  he  transfixed  the  animal  with  his 
sword,  so  that  he  fell  dead  at  his  verj'  feet. 

A  balcony  runs  along  the  facade  of  the  chateau,  over- 
looking the  Loire,  between  the  carved  stone  gallery  and 
those  beautiful  windows  which  have  been  lately  restored. 
Its  square  bars  of  cast-iron  cross  each  other  in  a  long  net- 
work of  links  or  squares,  stretching  away  for  a  distance  of 
twenty-five  metres.  It  follows,  in  its  course,  the  wind- 
ings, turnings,  recesses  and  reliefs  of  the  castle  walls. 

On  a  certain  night,  in  the  year  1560,  the  boatmen  sailing 
up  and  down  the  river  might  have  seen  some  masses  of 
black  and  sombre  tatters  hanging  from  the  balcony  in  the 
pale  moonlight.  The  midnight  breeze  fanned  them  to  and 
fro;  they  seemed  like  massive  bundles,  hung  out  there  to 
dry.  But  when  the  breeze  was  fanned  a  little  also — ever 
so  little,  so  as  to  drive  away  the  clouds  from  the  face  of 
the  water>'  moon,  livid  faces,  stiffened  limbs  and  lifeless 
bodies — that  is  what  the  boatmen  would  have  seen  as  they 
pursued  their  tranquil  way  up  or  down  the  Loire.  It  was 
the  "Conjuration  d'Amboise,"  and  its  conspirators  were 
paying  for  their  treason. 

During  the  seventeenth  centurj-  Royalty  abandoned 
Amboise,  and  in  1764  the  Due  de  Choiseul  bought 
Chanteloup  and  the  Baronie  d'Amboise.  The  Due 
brought  back  to  it  somewhat  of  its  former  character,  and 
the  court,  to  show  its  displeasure  at  the  triumph  of  "la 
du  Barry,"  passed  often  over  the  road  from  Chante- 
loup to  Amboise.  The  Due  de  PenthiJ;re  was  the  next 
owner,    and    through    him     Amboise    passed     into    the 

'45 


^^^S 


TWO   GENTLEiMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

d'Orleans  family.  Napoleon  III  confiscated  the  chateau 
and  used  it  as  a  prison  for  Abd-el-Kader,  the  Arabian 
chief.  In  later  years  he  came  himself  and  set  the  Emir 
at  liberty.  By  the  decree  of  1892  Amboise  came  back  to 
the  Comte  de  Paris,  and  after  his  death  it  was  sold  by  the 
Due  d'Orleans  to  the  latter's  uncle,  the  Due  d'Aumale. 
The  Due  d'Aiimale  has  left  it  to  the  nation  as  a  hospital 
for  retired  soldiers.  That  little  which  the  centuries  and 
revolutions  have  left  of  this  royal  chateau  is  being  slowly 
restored.  It  will  be  just  enough  to  become  a  feature  in 
the  landscape  and  to  attract  the  eye  to  an  effective  union 
of  the  Gothic  and  the  Renaissance,  just  enough  to  keep 
alive  its  interest  of  to-day.  But,  in  spite  of  all,  it  reminds 
us  of  a  cripple  that  has  just  begun  to  walk.  It  must 
always  have  one  of  its  limbs  shorter  than  the  other ;  but 
its  doctors  and  its  friends  still  trust  that  it  may  one 
day  walk  alone,  with  only  the  inevitable  limp. 

As  we  wind  our  way  down  the  steep  path  leading  to 
the  "Hotel  Lion  d'Or,"  while  the  mists  float  over  the 
ancient  walls,  Amboise  seems  to  be,  more  and  more, 
"a  castle  in  the  air."  High  above  the  little  town  its 
pointed  windows  scrape  the  sky  itself.  Its  ruined  walls 
and  half  restored  galleries  and  chambers  seem  to  be  more 
in  keeping  with  a  legend,  or  a  fancy  of  the  mind,  than  with 
reality.  As  we  look  once  more  upon  this  strange,  though 
beautiful,  painted  picture,  we  are  unable  to  conceal  from 
ourselves  a  faint  fear  that  what  has  been  so  long  delayed 
may  perhaps  be  abandoned  altogether.  For  it  seems  as 
if  Amboise  might  soon  become,  as  it  must  one  day,  a 
castle  of  the  past,  a  ruin  of  the  Mediaeval  glory. 


146 


CHAPTER    VII 

FROM    AMHOISE    TO    CHENONCEAU 

A  sudden  "bang!  bang!  bang!"  aroused  me  from  a 
dream,  and  I  was  brought  to  consciousness  by  a  knock  at 
my  door,  no  ordinary*  knock,  alas,  but  one  such  as  only  a 
Frenchman  may  give  and  a  French  door  endure;  a  knock, 
in  short,  which  dispels  all  thoughts  of  dreams  or  castles 
in  the  air,  and  calls  us  back  to  the  most  unattractive  of 
realities. 

"Cinq  heures — et  demi!"  echoed  a  voice,  in  ver)-  good 
French.  "Time  to  gaet  hup" — in  verj-  bad  English — 
"Monsieur  le  Comte  'as  geeven  borders  to  wake  Monsieur 
hup  at  deess  hour." 

"Then  this  hour  is  altogether  too  early,"  I  thought  to 
myself,  and  fell  back  once  more  into  silence  and  sleep.  I 
endeavored  to  recall  my  dream  so  inopportunely  broken. 
But,  alas,  it  was  gone;  it  had  departed  forever.  My 
half-closed  eyes  were  but  just  making  the  acquaintance 
of  the  faint  light  floating  in  at  my  window  when  I  was 
aroused  by  a  second  knock,  which  would  certainly  have 
disturbed  the  repose  of  a  dead  man's  soul,  had  there 
been  one  in  the  room.  This  time  the  knocking  came, 
not  from  the  door,  but  from  the  wall  between  my  room 
and  that  of  the  Comte.  And  through  this  wall  I  could 
hear  him  say : 

"Hurry  up!     Hurry  up!     We  are  late.      We  should 
have  left  by  this  time."     No  answer  was  vouchsafed  to 
'47 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


r .  Y 


tJ 


'i ,  T 


this,  for  I  knew  how  wrong  I  was,  as  I  had  promised  to 
be  ready  at  that  hour.  And  I  endeavored  to  make  up  for 
lost  time,  by  dressing  as  fast  as  possible. 

Another  knock,  to  which  I  answered:  "Entrez!" 
brought  in  the  gargon,  the  "cafd-au-lait, "  steaming 
in  its  caf^tibre,  and  a  huge  cup  and  saucer.  It  looked 
peculiarly  tempting,  with  rolls  and  butter  beside  it,  all  on 
a  tray  covered  with  a  snow-white  napkin.  I  was  glad 
to  see  it. 

"Put  it  on  the  table  near  the  window,  if  you  please," 
said  I,  and  as  soon  as  the  waiter  had  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  I  finished  dressing  and  sat  down  to  my  petit 
ddjeuner.  "Rather  early  to  enjoy  it,"  I  thought.  Oh, 
how  I  wished  the  Comte  were  not  such  an  early  riser  nor 
so  fond  of  walking  at  sunrise!  I  was  quietly  butter- 
ing my  hot  rolls  when  the  door  was  thrown  open — this 
time  without  even  a  preliminary  knock — and  the  Comte 
came  flying  into  the  room. 

"This  is  really  too  much!  Six  o'clock,  and  you  are  still 
breakfasting.  I  am  surprised  that  you  are  not  still  sleep- 
ing. Indeed,  you  are  worse  than  those  animals — I  forget 
what  you  call  them — that  .sleep  six  months  in  the  year, 
for  I  think  you  must  certainly  sleep  eleven  out  of  twelve. 
You  left  me  last  evening  at  nine,  and  you  cannot  be  ready 
by  six.     It  is  rather  hard. " 

"Nine  hours  of  sleep,  you  know,"  I  put  in,  "only  nine 
hours.  That  is  not  a  very  great  hardship  to  bear.  But 
pray,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning?  I  have 
never  seen  you  in  such  a  state.  The  flowers  of  the 
Comtesse  must  have  been  sent  back  from  Chaumont. 
Sit  down,  and  drown  your  sorrows  in  a  bowl  of  my 
coffee.     It  is  an  excellent  antidote  for  the  temper." 

"No,  certainly  not,"  replied  the  Comte.  "I  am  in  my 
ordinary  state,  though  I  have  several  good  reasons  for 
losing  my  temper." 

"My  dear  friend,"   I  replied,   "nothing  is  worth  the 


* .  T 


T ,  T 


i.t 


*.v 


V .  T 


r .  i 


FROM    AM  HO  IS  K     TO    C'HKNONCEAU 

losing  of  ones  temper.  The  very  fact  of  losing  that 
indispensable  companion  to  pleasant  society  makes  the 
circumstance  disagreeable,  whereas,  if  you  treat  it  like 
the  individual  and  refuse  to  give  it  satisfaction,  it  will 
ver>'  soon  cease  bothering  you.  Take  my  advice,  and 
endeavor  to  believe  Emerson's  theory  of  the  perfect  com- 
pensation of  everything.  Then  you  will  save  yourself  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  in  vainly  endeavoring  to  outbalance 
circun.-tance  by  losing  your  temper." 

"I  never  was  able  to  apply  philosophy,"  said  the 
Comte.  "It  is  all  very  well  to  read  it  in  books,  but  it  is 
absolutely  unknown  in  French  life.  And  first  of  all,  I 
have  a  right  to  be  angry  because  you  arc  never  ready 
when  I  tell  you  to  be.  Secondly,  I  bored  myself  yester- 
day evening,  and  most  of  all,  I  lost  fifty  francs,  playing 
Bezique  with  a  partner  who  did  not  even  know  how  to 
hold  his  cards.  I  think  this  is  more  than  enough  to  make 
one  lose  one's  temper.  But  pray  hurry,  for  we  must 
start  now.  It  is  already  warm,  and  the  sun  will  make  it 
uncomfortable,  for  we  have  twelve  kilometres  and  more 
to  walk  this  morning."  So  saying,  he  pulled  a  long  bell 
handle.  A  bell  sounded  in  the  distance,  and  was  an- 
swered by  the  boy. 

"Garijon,"  said  the  Comte,  "take  down  these  bags, 
and  mind  that  you  have  them  sent  to  Chenonceau  by  the 
first  carriage  starting  from  Amboise.  The  driver  will 
leave  them  at  the  Hotel  du  Bon  Laboureur." 

"Bien,  Monsieur." 

And  leading  the  way,  the  Comte  ushered  me  down- 
stairs, though  I  was  still  half  asleep  and  could  only  dis- 
tinguish a  confused  mass  of  shining  black  boots,  waiting 
near  the  doors  for  their  owners  to  wake  up.  We  found 
ourselves  at  last,  after  running  the  gauntlet  of  at  least  a 
dozen  hungry  servants  (who  absorbed  not  a  little  of  our 
spare  change),  on  the  shady  quay  along  the  river — always 
the  beautiful  river,  the  Loire,  which  we  were  now  to  leave, 


i .  r 


T .  ( 


r ,  V 


T .  r 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

with  deep  regret  that  our  four  days  upon  its  banks  had 
not  been  lengthened  to  as  many  months. 

We  gave  a  last  look  toward  the  Hotel  Lion  d'Or — I 
think  every  village  in  France  must  have  at  least  one 
Hotel  Lion  d"  Or,  for  we  never  failed  to  find  one,  wher- 
ever we  chanced  to  be.  Oh,  how  I  wished  that  I  were 
behind  those  green  shutters  in  what  the  French  call  "la 
Chapelle  Blanche"!  How  much  would  I  have  given  for 
two  hours  more  of  sleep  I 

"Take  a  record  of  all  your  hours  of  sleep  lost,"  said  the 
Comte,  in  a  sarcastic  tone,  "and  once  back  in  America, 
you  might  sleep  for  months  at  a  time  to  make  up  your 
average.  But  while  you  are  with  me,  crossing  this  lovely 
country  and  walking  along  these  picturesque  roads  and 
paths,  so  pleasant  in  the  morning,  you  will  have  to  get  up 
early.  Oh,  my  fifty  francs!  How  I  wish  I  had  them 
still!"  And  I  was  tempted  to  exclaim,  "Oh!  away 
with  your  fifty  francs!  Forget  them;  they  are  lost  for- 
ever. ' ' 

We  turned  to  the  left,  during  this  talk,  to  follow 
a  street  which  twisted  about  for  several  turns,  some- 
what after  the  manner  of  a  corkscrew,  and  ended  by 
bringing  us  to  the  outskirts  of  Amboise.  The  next  thing 
was  a  hill  to  climb.  The  road,  winding  up  through  the 
vineyards  which  covered  its  slope,  like  so  many  hectares  of 
soft,  green  moss,  soon  brought  us  to  the  top.  We 
stopped  here,  to  look  at  Amboise  behind  us,  sleeping 
peacefully  in  a  hollow  made  by  sloping  hills.  The 
chateau  crowned  the  whole,  while  farther  on,  and  in  the 
distance,  the  outlines  of  the  "vall(5e  de  la  Loire"  were 
just  visible  behind  the  mists  of  a  summer  morning. 

"This  is  indeed  beautiful,"  said  the  Comte,  enthusi- 
astically. "Imagine  how  much  travelers  lose  by  laziness. 
Why,  this  scene  alone  is  worth  sitting  up  for  all  night." 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  all  things  should  be  taken  in 
moderation,  and  that  I  was  more  than  contented  to  arise 


FROM   AMBOISK     lO    CHKNONCKAU 

at  six  in  order  to  see  it.     Rut  my  suggestion  was  not  very 
well  received. 

"I  must  call  it  an  unpardonable  lack  of  artistic  and 
poetical  feeling,  by  which  one  certainly  loses  half  of  the 
pleasures  of  life." 

"I  fear  the  'pleasures  of  life,"  even  as  Sir  John  Lub- 
bock has  so  ably  painted  them,  would  lose  a  great  deal  of 
their  charm  under  such  conditions.  But  I  suppose  that  we 
should  not  stop  indefinitely  here,  so  let  us  pursue  our 
road  through  the  forest,  which  looks  as  if  it  had  lowered 
its  green  curtain  in  front  to  arrest  us  on  our  walk." 

"This  is  the  forest  of  Amboise,  and  it  belongs  to  the 
state,"  said  my  friend,  who  was  regaining  his  good 
humor  by  degrees.  "Some  hundred  years  ago  it  was 
part  of  the  great  estate  of  Chanteloup,  which  belonged  to 
the  Due  de  Choiseul,  one  of  the  ministers  of  Louis  XV. 
The  castle  itself  was  a  beautiful  palace,  built  by  the  Prin- 
cess des  Ursins,  who  played  such  a  poetical  part,  as  you 
know,  in  the  "affaires  d'Espagne,"  under  Louis  XIV. 
The  stables,  however,  were  the  only  portion  of  the 
chateau  that  was  ever  completed.  The  Due  de  Choiseul 
made  it  the  rendezvous  of  the  discontented  members  of 
the  court,  and  they  must  have  been  numerous,  for  we 
still  hear  of  the  great  number  of  state  coaches  and  of  the 
old  carrosses  which  furrowed,  night  and  day,  the  very 
road  upon  which  we  are  walking." 

"That  time,  then,  has  certainly  passed,"  said  I,  "for  we 
have  not  met  a  single  carriage,  nor  even  a  peasant,  this 
morning.  But  it  is,  of  course,  too  early  for  any  one 
but  enthusiasts  to  be  up  and  out." 

"Chanteloup  is  a  thing  of  the  past,"  the  Comte  con- 
tinued, without  heeding  my  interruption.  "It  has  now 
been  bought  by  'la  bande  noire,'*  which  has  destroyed 

•  A  company,  so-called  because  it  ha.s  bought  historical  monumetiU 
throughout  the  country,  and  torn  them  down  in  order  to  sell  the 
stone. 

«5> 


^S^^^SK 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

it  completely  and  sold  the  stone.  The  only  thing  left  of 
it  is  a  tower,  built  by  Choiseul,  in  the  middle  of  this  for- 
est. It  was  in  the  Chinese  style,  which  was  then  'a  la 
mode,'  and  is  called  'la  pagode  de  Chanteloup.'  " 

We  now  found  ourselves  before  three  roads,  without  hav- 
ing the  least  idea  which  to  take;  so  that  we  were  forced 
to  produce  our  map,  "d'etat  major,"  which  was  always 
at  hand,  but  which,  nevertheless,  it  needed  a  liberal 
education  to  make  head  or  tail  of.  As  this  failed  to 
give  us  the  desired  information,  we  waited  for  some  one 
who  should  go  by,  to  tell  us.  Soon  the  rattle  of  wheels 
was  heard  in  the  distance,  and  a  peasant  woman,  with  a 
short  pinafore  and  white  cap,  appeared  upon  the  road, 
pushing  forward  in  front  of  her  a  hand-cart  in  which  two 
rows  of  high  tin  cans  were  rattling  merrily  together. 
She  was  a  farmer's  wife  about  to  sell  her  milk  at  Amboise. 
The  Comte  stopped  her,  and  after  the  customary,  "Bon 
jour,  ma  brave  femme, "  he  inquired  the  road  to  Chenon- 
ceau. 

"Je  ne  sais  vraiment  pas,"  answered  the  peasant 
woman.  "Perhaps  it  is  the  middle  one,  and  then  the  turn 
on  the  right  at  the  first  road  you  meet,  then  on  the  left 
afterwards,  and  on  the  right  or  on  the  left  after  that. 
Je  ne  sais  vraiment  pas." 

"Is  it  far  from  here?" 

"Je  ne  sais  vraiment  pas.  Perhaps  six  kilometres. 
Bon  jour,  Messieurs;"  and  she  went  rattling  off  on  her 
way. 

"What  a  very  unsatisfactory  answer!"  said  I. 

"You  must  get  accustomed  to  it,  for  you  will  never  find 
a  peasant  who  will  answer  your  question  directly,  or  in  a 
direct  manner,  although  she  could  perfectly  well  tell  you 
what  you  ask  her.  That  woman  knew  the  road  as  well 
as  her  name;  but  I  could  not  have  got  her  to  tell  it  to  me 
if  I  had  asked  her  from  now  until  Doomsday." 

"How  strange!"  I  replied.     "Why  is  it?" 

152 


FROM    AMIJOISK    TO    CIIKNONCKAU 

"Why?  Uccuusc  he  is  always  afraid  of  committing 
himself." 

"And  are  all  the  members  of  your  lower  class  intluenccd 
in  the  same  way?" 

"That  depends  upon  whether  you  consider  the  lower 
class  to  be  made  up  entirely  of  peasants.  If  so,  I  must 
answer  that  they  are.  But  we  subdivide  our  lower  class 
in  France  into  two  branches,  the  peasants  and  the  work- 
ing people,  as  well  of  villages  as  towns.  And  here  we 
find  a  great  difference  between  the  two  branches." 

"This  is  very  interesting  to  me,"  I  replied.  "The 
more  so  as  I  should  never  have  thought  it  to  be  the  case. 
For,  on  the  contrary,  I  should  have  thought  that  the 
peasant,  from  his  very  ignorance,  would  have  been  far 
more  easy  to  influence  than  the  workman.  The  latter 
has  often  tasted  the  bitterness  of  the  new  principles, 
inculcated  in  him,  and  he  is  consequently  embittered 
against  the  present  conditions  of  society." 

"We  have  a  word  which  expresses  exactly,  I  think,  our 
peasant's  mood.  He  is  'tttu.'  It  means,  that  if  he  has 
once  an  idea  in  his  head,  you  cannot  get  it  out  again. 
He  has  inherited  the  idea  from  his  forefathers  that  every 
one  is  his  enemy,  and  that  he  is  the  only  person  who  can 
help  himself,  and  he  still  believes  this.  It  is  a  conse- 
quence of  atavism,  against  which  nothing  but  generations 
of  education,  properly  applied,  can  fight  with  success. 
The  older  generation  of  peasants  is  too  ignorant  to  know 
better,  and  keeps  to  its  old  inheritances  of  defiance  and 
slyness.  The  new  generation,  dissatisfied  with  the  igno- 
rance of  their  fathers,  has  tried  another  channel,  that  of 
throwing  off  the  occupations  of  their  parents  and  embrac- 
ing some  trade  or  employment.  And  this  is  because  they 
have  tasted  the  bitterness  and  the  decei>tions  that  are  to 
be  found  in  those  principles  which,  once  instilled  into  them, 
give  ambitions  without  the  means  of  gratifying  them.  So 
they  cling  to  the  first  one  whom  they  may  meet,  who 

'53 


IWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  T 


r ,  Y 


Y .  y 


seems  to  understand  them,  or  to  be  likely  to  do  them 
some  good  by  advice  or  influence." 

"I  can  understand  what  you  mean,"  I  replied.  "But 
how  is  it  about  religion?  Ought  it  not  to  help  matters  in 
one  way  or  another?  I  notice  such  strong  expressions  of 
religious  feeling  at  every  turn,  that,  even  allowing  for  the 
additional  forms  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  I  should 
have  thought  its  influence  would  be  felt  in  this  direction. " 

"Oh,  religion  in  the  peasantry,  I  fear,  comes  after 
what  they  call  their  'self-interest';  and  the  village 
church  is  crowded  only  because  the  master  of  the  chateau 
near  by  employs  only  those  people  who  go  to  church. 
Very  often  a  church  only  a  few  miles  distant  will  be 
almost  empty,  because  the  chatelains  do  not  care  either 
one  way  or  the  other.  I  believe  that  there  is  still  to  be 
found  in  Brittany  and  in  Normandy  a  true  and  deep 
faith  at  the  root  of  the  peasant's  nature.  But  there  also, 
as  in  Sologne  and  Touraine,  the  faith  is  founded  upon 
superstition,  rather  than  upon  truer  principles." 

"And  what  is  the  reason  for  this,  do  you  suppose?"  I 
asked. 

"I  should  say  the  principal  reason  was  to  be  found  in 
the  ignorance  of  the  peasants,  ignorance  inherited  and 
deeply  rooted  because  it  is  an  inheritance.  And  then 
perhaps  it  is  in  the  priests  also,  for,  finding  the  impos- 
sibility of  making  the  peasants  understand  the  principles, 
even  the  most  elementary  principles,  of  religion,  they 
have  learned  that  the  only  way  of  making  them  come 
to  church  is  by  frightening  them,  and  they  have  them- 
selves awakened  and  developed  those  superstitious 
instincts  which  are  latent  in  all  of  us." 

"And  do  you  approve  of  this?" 

"Of  course  not.  But  it  has  been  the  work  of  many 
centuries,  and  it  will  need  many  centuries  to  break  up 
these  superstitions.  Knowledge  alone  will  do  it,  and  a 
good  education,  only,  can  replace  the  superstition.     But 

154 


T .  T 


'( .  V 


T .  V 


FROM    AM  IK)  IS  K     TO   CHENONCEAU 


V ,  Y 


V .  V 


r .  i 


V .  V 


until  we  have  this  last  remedy,  a  good  education,  we 
must  choose  between  having  faith  on  its  superstitious 
basis  and  uprooting  it  completely.  This  is  what 
happens  now  under  the  present  mode  of  education. 
Therefore  we  have  the  two  questions  open  to  us:  'Is  it 
better  to  prevent  social  evils,  by  creating  a  fear  of 
Heavenly  punishment;  or  is  it  better  to  crush  down  the 
belief  in  Heavenly  punishment,  and  thus  open  an  unfet- 
tered road  to  crime  and  evil?" 

"I  see  plainly,  with  you,  that  the  fault  is  largely  in 
education.  But  do  you  think  that  the  lower  class  is  aware 
of  this  just  now?" 

"I  should  say  that  the  peasants,  perhaps,  have  not  yet 
suffered  enough  from  it  to  be  aware  of  it.  They  feel 
only  that  there  is  something  lacking  in  the  system  of  their 
lives;  but  they  do  not  know,  nor  do  they  even  suspect, 
where  the  trouble  lies.  As  for  the  workmen,  they  now 
are  almost  without  any  religious  principles  whatever. 
And  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  they  began  to  realize 
the  need  of  something  else  besides  materialism.  You 
know  enough  of  the  French  character  to  see  for  your- 
self that,  belonging  to  the  Latin  race,  they  are  people 
of  imagination  and  therefore  need  food  for  this  imagi. 
nation. 

"The  class  now  in  power  in  France  has  found  it 
necessary  to  its  own  ends  to  crush  the  highest  class. 
Education  was  the  best  means  of  doing  so;  and  in  educa- 
tion, as  they  understand  it,  religious  principles  and  the 
teaching  of  respect  and  reverence  to  superiors  were  the 
enemies.  This  has  been  carefully  eliminated  from  the 
modem  teachitlJ,^ 

"It  went  ver>-  well  for  some  years  because  it  was  new, 
and  because  it  was  based  upon  principles  of  'Libert«5^ 
Egalitd,  Fratemit<S,'  good  words,  and  ones  which  are 
always  popular.  But  now,  those  who  have  the  highest 
sense  of  reason   find    that    no   new  creed   has   come  to 


i .  T 


T .  V 


r ,  Y 


i .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

replace  the  old  creed,  that  the  golden  ages  without  God, 
which  had  been  promised,  have  never  turned  up.  Dis- 
content and  disillusion  have  increased,  more  and  more,  and 
now  the  workman  has  become  conscious  of  the  necessity 
of  a  creed  and  of  a  truth  to  help  him.  This  is  why  he  is 
more  easily  to  be  managed,  for  he  understands  things 
more  clearly  than  the  peasant.  I  wish  I  coiild  set  an 
example  before  your  eyes,"  added  my  companion,  "just 
to  show  you  the  truth  of  what  I  am  saying." 

We  had  walked  some  miles  during  our  talk,  and  had 
now  left  the  forest  behind  us.  We  had  reached  the  edge 
of  a  plateau,  stretching  from  the  valley  of  the  Loire  to 
that  of  the  Cher.  In  front  of  us,  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  the  last-named  river  was  visible,  winding  its  way 
through  a  valley  which  is  there  especially  fertile. 

"What  an  effective  bit  of  scenery  is  this!"  exclaimed  the 
Comte,  pointing  toward  the  valley  and  the  river.  An  old 
stone  well  with  a  round  top,  not  tmlike  the  niches  made 
in  the  walls  of  a  church  for  the  statue  of  a  saint,  rose 
beside  the  road.  A  great  part  of  the  stone  was  covered 
with  ivy,  which  had  grown  so  thick  in  places  as  to  look 
like  small  green  bushes  falling  over  the  mouth  of  the 
well.  The  endless  rope  was  there,  twined  around  the 
roller  like  a  sleepy  snake  about  a  tree.  The  wooden 
wheel,  shining  with  age  and  use,  was  resting  as  if  wait- 
ing for  some  one  to  come  and  draw  up  the  bucket  filled 
with  water. 

"How  it  rises  above  the  hill,"  said  I,  "and  shows  there, 
in  dark  relief,  against  the  blue  sky,  while  its  base  is  lost 
in  the  vines  growing  about  it!" 

"It  would  make  a  pretty  picture,  would  it  not?"  added 
my  friend.  "Let  us  sit  down  on  this  heap  of  stones,  and 
draw  a  few  lines  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  if  only  to  remember 
the  spot." 

"I  wish  one  could  put  down  also  upon  paper  that  feel- 
ing,  not  of  existence  but  of  life,   which  completes  the 

156 


FROM    AMBOISK   TO    CHENONCEAU 

pleasure  of  watching  or  of  drawing  such  hits  of  land- 
scape even  imperfectly."' 

"I  agree  with  you,"  asserted  the  Comte  absently,  for  he 
was  already  busy  drawing.  "There  is  a  wonderful  peace 
and  at  the  same  time  a  buoyant  life  in  everything  around 
us  just  now.  Look  down  the  slope  there,"  and  he  paused 
in  his  work  to  point  with  his  long  pencil,  "look  down  into 
the  valley  itself  and  at  the  cottages,  the  villas,  and  the 
chateaux,  hanging  in  a  cluster  of  trees,  or  resting  near 
the  river;  how  they  seem  to  slumber  in  the  shade  and  to 
breathe  peace  and  happiness.  But,  alas,  when  one  think.^^ 
of  all  that  goes  on  under  those  roofs,  under  those  towers 
of  the  chateau!  I  think  one  is  tempted  to  be  more  satis- 
fied with  one's  own  lot,  as  being,  in  reality,  more  peaceful 
than  those  which  we  see  at  that  distance  which  always 
lends  enchantment.  We  do  not  have  to  go  as  far  as  those 
houses  to  realize  that  the  struggle  for  life  is  here,  as  well 
as  everj-where.  Listen  to  the  deep,  harmonious  voices  of 
those  men,  calling  the  women  who  are  working  in  the 
neighboring  fields.  The  sound  is  pleasant  enough,  and 
the  picture  is  full  of  poetry  and  charm,  as  we  watch  them. 
But  see  how  soon  it  is  dispelled  by  the  answers  that  come 
in  high,  shrill  tones,  to  tell  of  something  not  in  harmony 
— something  that  brings  us  back  again  to  reality.  What 
a  busy  world  it  is!  They  work  to  live,  here  in  this  quiet 
spot,  as  truly  as  the  struggling  laborer  in  a  swarming 
city,  as  truly  as  the  bees  which  have  stayed  a  long  time 
in  the  valley,  sipping  the  heart  of  the  flowers  for  their 
existence.  See,  they  are  hovering  over  our  heads,  on 
their  return  to  the  stone  well,  filled  with  honey.  They 
are  pretty  pictures  also  to  look  at ;  but  they  have  their 
work,  nevertheless.  In  short,  walls  and  appearances  may 
tell  of  peace  and  smiles  and  poetry;  but  underneath  them 
there  is  life  and  a  struggle." 

"You  see  how  good  it  is  for  us  both,"  answered  mj- 
friend  the  Comte,  "to  get  up  early;  for  it  allows  one  to 

•57 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T ,  Y 


r .  X 


Y .  y 


fall  into  a  very  philosophizing  frame  of  mind  and  even  to 
become  interested  in  your  philosophy." 

"Many  thanks  for  your  kind  consideration,"  said  I. 
"I  think,  if  one  did  not  take  this  getting-up  philosophic- 
ally, one  would  be  very  badly  off — at  least  I  should." 

As  we  spoke,  two  men  came  through  a  wooden  gate, 
leading  to  a  farm  half  hidden  by  trees  and  shrubbery,  and 
walked  toward  us.  They  were  both  peasants,  clad  in 
blue  blouses  and  brown  velveteen  trousers.  The  elder  of 
the  two  must  have  been  fifty,  and  his  face  was  hard  and 
sunburned,  furrowed  by  time  and  wrinkles  as  deeply  as 
if  cut  by  the  plow  which  he  was  so  used  to  handle.  The 
short  black  whiskers,  the  unshaven  chin,  gave  to  his  face 
a  sinister  expression,  only  aggravated  by  a  pair  of  deep- 
set  eyes,  that  were  ignorant  and  yet  possessed  of  shrewd- 
ness. The  younger,  who  was  unmistakably  his  son,  was 
one  of  those  members  of  humanit)',  not,  alas,  confined  to 
the  peasant  class,  who,  even  if  they  have  a  chance  ray  of 
intelligence,  do  not  show  it  in  the  face.  He  was  short 
and  heavy,  and  his  head,  not  unlike  a  small  pumpkin,  was 
covered  by  a  mass  of  coarse  brown  hair.  His  face  was 
round  and  stupid,  with  drooping  eyes  and  one  of  those 
indefinite  mouths  whose  lips  would  not  stay  closed. 

As  they  arrived  at  the  spot  where  we  were  sitting,  they 
stopped  and  stood  opposite  us  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
They  looked  at  the  Comte,  who  was  still  sketching, 
with  suspicious  countenances,  the  father  evidently  with 
some  meaning  and  the  son  because  he  saw  his  father 
do  so. 

"So  you  are  making  a  plan  of  the  country?"  ventured 
the  man,  addressing  the  Comte. 

"No.  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  asking  me 
such  a  question." 

"Well,  you  are  foreigners,  and  I  saw  you  writing  notes 
on  a  paper." 

"To  begin  with,  I  am  not  a  foreigner.     I  was  born  and 


4 .  T 


T ,  T 


i .  T 


FROM    AMUOISK    TO   CHKNONCKAU 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y  .  Y 


brouRht  up  in  France.     Then  I  am  not  writing  notes; 
but  simply  sketching  this  old  well." 

"It's  not  worth  it.  Hlxcuse  me;  I  thought  you  were  a 
foreigner.     And  the  monsieur  with  you?" 

"Is  an  American.  Vou  know  that  country  far  away 
beyond  the  seas?  He  travels  to  admire  the  beauties  of 
Touraine  and  its  chateaux." 

"Ah!  So  he  is  a  foreigner,  nevertheless."  And  com- 
ing back  to  his  first  thought  that  the  Comte  was  a  Ger- 
man spy  taking  a  plan  of  his  country— foreigners  and 
Germans  are  all  the  same  in  the  mind  of  the  French 
peasant— he  added  thoughtfully:  "Ah!  All  is  going 
badly  for  the  present;  and  if  a  war,  like  that  of  1870, 
broke  out,  how  many  houses  and  chateaux  would  be 
burned,  and  how  many  bourgeois  would  be  killed — and 
nobles  too;  for  it  would  end  in  civil  war!" 

"Do not  be  troubled  with  such  thoughts,"  returned  my 
friend.  "We  are  far  from  another  war,  such  as  that  of 
1870.  All  great  countries  wish  for  peace  now.  They 
need  it  on  account  of  their  interior  activities  and  indus- 
tries. And  besides  that,  all  appreciate  the  responsibility 
which  falls  upon  those  who  declare  war.  This,  perhaps, 
is  the  best  remedy  against  it." 

"Oh!  But  has  there  not  already  been  a  war  between 
China  and  Japan?" 

"Yes,  my  friend,  of  course;  but  I  do  not  see  how  that 
can  affect  us." 

"It  may  be  a  trap  laid  for  us  to  fall  into,"  and  the 
peasant's  eyes  fell  onus,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  suspi- 
cion, as  if  he  thought  that  in  some  way  we  must  be  respon- 
sible for  that  war,  which  he  feared  would  reach  him  also. 
"No,  my  friend;  set  your  mind  at  rest  upon  that  point. 
European  countries  have  far  too  much  to  do,  fighting 
anarchy,  which  is  like  a  great  social  cancer  eating  them 
inch  by  inch,  to  be  able  to  think  of  exterior  wars. 
Anarchy  is  our  worst  enemy." 

•59 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

"Yes.  Monsieur  is  right;  but  if  a  war  like  that  of  1870 
were  to  break  out,  the  chateaux  would  be  burned,  and  the 
proprietors  with  them." 

"And  why  this?"  I  put  in. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  took  up  the  Comte.  "Because  the 
judgment  of  the  peasant  has  been  falsely  made.  He  for- 
gets that  if  the  chateau  is  inhabited  by  the  right 
'noble,'  as  he  calls  '  him,  it  makes  the  one  and  only 
wealth  of  the  country  and  of  the  peasants  around  it. 
Take,  for  instance,  this  particular  village — Chenonceau. 
What  would  it  be  without  its  chateau?" 

"Monsieur  is  right;  the  village  would  be  nothing.  It 
would  crumble  to  ruin,  and  the  inhabitants  would  die  of 
poverty." 

"Eh  bien,"  said  the  Comte,  "you  forget  it  too  easily; 
and  because  for  centuries  a  particular  family  has  been 
beloved  in  a  place  and  made  every  one  around  it  com- 
fortable, you  have  become  accustomed  to  this  family  and 
wish  for  a  change.  Why?  Because  the  love  of  change  is 
innate  in  our  French  blood.  The  old  chatelains  have 
left,  and  new  ones  have  come,  who  may  remain  within 
the  chateau  and  allow  no  visitors  to  see  it  or  to  walk  in 
the  park.  In  a  word,  they  have  stopped  short  the  channel 
which  brought  the  visitors,  and  consequently  the  wealth 
to  the  place.  So,  for  this  reason,  you  say:  'If  1870  came 
back  nobles  and  chateaux  would  be  burned.'  You  for- 
get, the  peasant  forgets,  that  he  has  brought  upon  him- 
self what  is  happening  now ;  he  forgets  that  if  he  had  not 
had  a  master  at  the  chateau  to  assist  him,  he  would  have 
been  unable  to  carry  the  burden  of  cares  that  fall  upon 
him." 

"Yes,  yes,  monsieur  is  right.  But  everything  is  get- 
ting on  so  badly.  The  grape  vine  itself  does  not  ripen. 
So  monsieur  is  not  taking  a  plan  of  the  country?  So 
monsieur  is  really  French?" 

"Yes,  I  am;  but  with  this  difference,  that  I  am  not  like 


160 


FROM    AM  BOISE   TO    CHENONCEAU 


all  Frenchmen,  for  I  have  travelled  a  good  deal.  And 
while  travelling,  I  have  been  enabled  to  study  and  to  com- 
pare the  faults  and  qualities  of  other  nations.  Now  it  is 
possible  for  me  to  generalize;  and  if  all  would  see  things 
in  the  same  light  as  I  do  we  should  certainly  not  be  where 
we  are  now.  Do  you  suppose,  for  instance,  if  I  were 
Mai  re  of  my  village,  that  I  would  pay  the  least  attention 
to  the  pulitical  opinions  of  my  'conseillers  municipaux?' 
Certainly  not.  I  would  have  in  view  only  the  good  of  the 
village  and  its  surroundings,  and  their  comfort.  It  is  not 
because  a  man  holds  such  or  such  opinions  that  he  is  good 
or  bad.  The  thing  is  to  ascertain  if  he  will,  or  if  he  will 
not,  live  up  to  his  convictions.  The  man,  'convaincu' — 
remember  that — is  the  only  one  who  can  do  much  good, 
just  as  he  is  the  only  one  who  can  do  much  harm,  and  thus 
be  dangerous.  The  anarchist — we  spoke  of  him  some 
moments  ago — is  dangerous,  because  he  is  'convaincu.' 
He  has  had  wrong  ideas  so  instilled  into  him,  and  has 
become  so  wrapped  up  in  them,  that  he  has  become  a 
fanatic.  He  has  lost  his  responsibility.  He  has  become 
a  machine  to  work  ruin  and  destruction — a  killing 
machine — because  his  conviction  cries  out  to  him:  'Kill, 
kill!"     Life  is  nothing  to  you,  nor  to  others." 

"Yes,  it  is  all  true,"  returned  the  peasant  thoughtfully. 
"It  is  like  a  freemasonry.  It  is  like,  in  1 815,  or  in  the 
nineties,  what  was  called  the  'Emigres.'  " 

"Yes,  but  with  this  difference,  that  they  were  fighting 
for  a  just  cause,  to  recover  their  estates,  to  revenge  a 
father,  a  mother,  a  sister,  a  brother,  or  some  other  vic- 
tim of  the  revolution.  The  anarchists  fight,  however, 
for  a  cause  which  is  thought  just  only  by  them,  and  to 
revenge  themselves  for  having  been  born  to  an  age  which 
has  failed  them  in  its  promises." 

"And  whose  fault  is  it,  then,  if  our  children  do  not 
like  to  work  the   soil  we   have  worked  all    our   lives?" 
The  words  of  the  Comte  had  touched  the  vital  chords  of 
161 


^^kfy, 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

the  peasant's  constitution,  and  a  revolution  of  ideas  was 
taking  place,  behind  those  black  eyes,  which  were  still 
suspicious,  though  less  so  than  before. 

"Your  own  fault,  my  friend,"  the  Comte  answered; 
"your  own  fault,  because  you  believed  in  those  who  came, 
and  said  to  you:  'There  is  no  distinction  of  classes,  no 
more  nobility,  no  more  bourgeoisie.  You  may  become  as 
fine,  and  finer,  than  they  are. '  And  you  have  believed  it ; 
and  you  have  given  them  charge  of  your  children,  and 
they  have  given  you  back  'des  messieurs,'  and  pretty  sorts 
of  messieurs,  too!     All  this  comes  from  your  education." 

"So  Monsieur  is  against  education,  then?" 

"No,  I  am  certainly  not  against  education  in  itself;  but 
against  the  same  sort  of  education  given  to  all.  How  can 
you  expect  to  inculcate  doctrines,  the  same  doctrines,  to 
men  whose  intellects  vary  from  the  brute's  to  the  average 
man's,  and  from  this  down  again  to  the  brute's?  You, 
for  instance,  who  do  not  know  even  how  to  read,  or  to 
write  either,  do  you  suppose  that  I  have  less  respect  for 
you?  No.  A  cross  is  enough  to  sign  a  deed;  and  we 
ought  not  to  judge  a  man  by  what  he  knows  (because  his 
knowledge  is  subordinated  to  the  circumstances  of  his 
education),  but  by  what  he  does  by  his  own  judgment, 
acting  upon  what  he  knows.  It  is  then  that  we  know, 
that  knowledge,  artificially  placed  in  his  mind,  has  not 
influenced  his  actions." 

"All  this  is  very  deep  for  me  to  understand.  Monsieur; 
but  what  is  a  fact  is  that  I  sign  my  name  with  a  cross, 
and  that  I  wanted  my  children  to  know  how  to  sign  their 
own  names  in  full." 

"Yes,  and  this  is  why  you  have  sent  your  children  to 
the  'dcole  primaire  commvmale'  to  be  brought  up  under 
the  care  of  a  schoolmaster,  whom  you  know  nothing 
about,  whom  you  accept  because  he  is  the  only  one,  and 
because  he  has  been  sent  by  the  Ministre  de  I'lnstruction 
Public.  Now  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Ministre,  who 
162 


FROM    AM  BOISE   TO    CHENONCEAU 

sends  the  school  teacher,  seldom  knows  as  much  about 
him  as  you  do.  How  could  he?  Did  you  ever  think  of 
that?  You  either  do  not  take  the  trouble,  or  you  cannot, 
to  inciuire  what  sort  of  a  person  the  Ministre  is,  what 
are  his  principles,  or  what  arc  the  interests  which  move 
his  actions.  You  accept  his  choice,  because  the  halo  of 
power  which  surrounds  him  renders  his  judgment 
infallible  in  your  eyes,  and  you  hand  over  your  children 
to  this  instruction  because  everj-body  does  it.  There  you 
will  find  a  teacher,  imbued  with  the  principles  of  the  new 
school,  who  by  conviction,  by  fashion,  or  more  prob- 
ably, by  fear  of  losing  his  position,  will  have  no  moral 
principles,  will  not  go  to  church,  and  will  never  mention 
the  name  of  God,  because,  as  he  says:  'Ce  n'est  plus  la 
mode.'  He  will  crush  out  the  last  atom  of  religion  which 
may  have  chanced  to  linger  in  your  child's  heart,  by 
calling  it  'a  superannuated  superstition.'  Mind,  I  do  not 
advocate  any  one  faith  in  favor  of  another;  for  according 
to  my  ideas,  all  men  who  lead  an  honorable  life,  obeying 
the  voice  of  their  conscience  or  creed,  have  a  religion,  and 
a  religion  which  is  worthy  of  respect." 

"Oui,  oui!  ..." 

"This  teacher,  if  not  by  words,  at  least  by  his  own  per- 
sonal example,  will  persuade  your  son  that  the  peasant 
and  the  farmer  are  nonentities,  that  the  work  of  the  soil 
is  a  work  worthy  only  of  brutes,  that  the  seed,  sown,  fer- 
menting, growing,  flowering,  ripening  and  nourishing  the 
world,  is  not  worthy  of  a  natural  study.  They  place  in 
your  children's  minds  the  idea  that  a  city,  with  all  its 
advancement  and  distraction,  its  pleasures  and  possi- 
bilities, is  the  only  place  worthy  of  a  man.  They  tell  them 
that  nobles  and  bourgeois  have  "had  their  time,"  and 
that  now  it  is  somebody's  else  turn.  Your  children  leave 
their  school,  thinking  to  be  teachers  themselves,  to  go  to 
the  town  or  the  city,  and  they  are  ashamed  of  their  old 
father,  who  lives  yonder  in  the  countrj*  on  the  hillside, 
1 6.? 


T .  T 


T .  Y 


t.t 


i .  i 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

who  still  wears  his  blouse  and  his  round  hat  to  go  to  'la 
grande  messe'  on  Sunday.  Well,  there  is  at  least  no 
harm  in  going  to  mass  of  a  Sunday,  and  it  is  a  question 
whether  the  son  does  any  good  in  being  ashamed  of  his 
father.  What  has  brought  him  there?  Education." 
"Oui,  Monsieur,  c'est  bien  vrai,  I'education. " 
"Just  listen  to  me  a  few  moments,"  the  Comte  con- 
tinued, laying  down  his  sketch,  "and  I  will  try  and 
explain  this  a  little  to  you.  Take  sixty  boys  in  a  village, 
and  teach  them  all  those  principles  which  I  have  just  told 
you  about;  what  will  become  of  them?  Perhaps  twenty 
of  them,  personally  I  think  probably  less  than  that,  will 
return  to  the  fields  and  work  at  the  soil  with  their  fathers. 
These  will  do  so  either  because  their  natures  or  intel- 
lects are  such  that  they  have  not  understood  their 
teaching,  or  because  the  father  has  had  enough  influence 
to  make  them  do  so.  Five  out  of  the  sixty  might  accom- 
plish their  aim,  in  reaching  the  '^cole  normale,'  become 
teachers  themselves,  and  gain  enough  to  live  upon. 
They  will  be  obliged  to  go  on  teaching,  often  without 
being  believers  in  the  principles  of  their  government 
(and  you  should  be  able  to  judge  by  this  time  whether 
this  be  good  or  bad),  otherwise  they  would  lose  their 
positions  and  become  beggars,  being  unfit  for  any  other 
station  in  life.  But  the  others,  those  that  remain  of  the 
sixty;  what  will  become  of  these?" 
"Ah,  I  do  not  know,  Monsieur." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  show  you  what  becomes  of  them, 
these  overgrown  boys.  They  have  been  made  to  hate 
the  'noblesse,'  and  to  be  ashamed  of  their  fathers,  or 
indeed  of  any  one  who  works  with  his  hands.  They  have 
learned  well  these  principles,  which  have  become  part  and 
parcel  of  their  constitutions,  of  themselves,  of  their  lives. 
But  they  do  not  understand,  that  to  be  consistent  with 
such  convictions,  they  must  know  how  to  rise  above  that 
class  which  they  have  been  taught  to  hold  in  contempt. 
164 


i .  Y 


T .  V 


r .  Y 


Y .  Y 


FROM    AMHOISt   TO    CHENONCEAU 


Y ,  V 


T .  i 


T .  Y 


V .  V 


Without  the  capacity  to  win  their  aims,  they  start  for  the 
city,  with  enough  to  live  upon  for  a  few  weeks.  But 
weeks  and  months  will  pass,  and  ninety-eight  out  of  a 
hundred  of  these  will  fail  to  find  what  they  are  hunting 
for — a  position  for  which  they  are  unfitted.  They  will 
find,  instead,  wretchedness  and  poverty,  undermining  doc- 
trines and  convictions,  which  forbid  them  to  work  at  that 
work  for  which  they  were  born.  They  may  endeavor  to 
find  a  noble  or  a  bourgeois,  whom  they  hate,  but  who 
may  give  them  a  position  as  secretary  or  as  overseer. 
They  will  only  find  his  doors  closed  upon  them,  for  these 
open  upon  those  who  are  more  worthy  to  enter.  Tliey 
will  meet  others,  born  in  the  same  condition,  bred  and 
brought  up  in  the  same  way  and  dying  of  hunger  for  the 
same  reason.  They  will  say  to  one  another:  'We  must 
live,"  and  they  will  question  how.  'By  the  soil?  No;  we 
cannot  work.  By  becoming  a  teacher?"  Many  try;  but 
few  succeed.  'Belles  Lettres'  are  not  always  a  dinner,  or 
even  a  d(5jeuner;  how  many  even  die  of  poverty,  whose 
brains  are  filled  with  truer  knowledge  than  the  great,  much 
more  these  poor,  deluded,  and  uprooted  plants  of  human 
nature !  Go  to  the  town ;  go  to  Paris.  Everywhere  you 
see  these  misdirected  natures  and  intellects,  dying  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  hiding  their  misery  beneath  a  thread- 
bare coat,  and  living  in  an  attic,  where  they  shiver  in  win- 
ter or  faint  in  summer.  And  meanwhile  their  fathers 
end  in  well-earned  comfort  a  life  spent  under  the 
authority  of  a  master,  almost  always  kind.  Discontented 
minds,  discontented  by  unfulfilled  promises,  suffer  on 
all  sides  an  agony  of  mind  and  body,  and  they  drag 
their  miserj-  behind  them,  over  luxurious  Paris.  A 
new  suit  of  clothes,  a  victoria  drawn  by  prancing 
horses  and  bearing  a  woman  whose  painted  cheeks  and 
elaborate  dress  display  the  luxurj-  which  is  the  out- 
come of  a  dishonored  life,  all  anger  and  exasperate 
those  men,  who  suffer  because  they  have  been  taught 
.65 


i .  T 


T ,  4 


i .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

to  consider  themselves  as  victims.  'Why  may  we  not 
afford  new  clothes;  why  are  we  not  rich  also?  It  was 
promised  to  us  that,  all  being  equal,  we  too  should  be 
rich.'  And  these  wretched  beings  vow  death  to  society 
and  to  men.  They  are  those  who  have  given  to  France 
and  to  Europe  the  word  anarchy.  Are  they  guilty? 
They  are  most  certainly ;  but  less  so,  I  think,  than  those 
who  have  taken  them  as  children  and  brought  them,  little 
by  little,  to  their  present  condition.  If  these  men  had 
only  remained  in  their  own  sphere  of  life,  they  would 
have  been  happy,  and  happier  than  many  who  live  within 
their  castle  walls.  They  are  like  seeds  which  have  been 
planted  in  a  fertile  soil,  but  have  afterwards  been  dug  up 
and  allowed  to  dry  in  the  sun,  without  nourishment. 
And  should  we  be  angry  with  such  men?  No;  we  may 
only  deplore  their  state  of  mind  and  fight  against 
them  for  the  defense  of  society.  They,  alas,  are  'con- 
vaincu'  that  death  is  better  than  life,  which  they  would 
end;  and  it  is  here  that  the  danger  lies." 

"What  is  the  remedy?"  I  asked,  as  the  two  peasants 
were  still  motionless  and  endeavoring  to  take  in  all  that 
the  Comte  had  been  telling  them. 

"Time;  alas,  time  alone.  One  cannot  destroy  the 
poisoned  fruit  which  the  present  generation  bears.  The 
remedy  is  in  the  education  of  the  coming  generation,  in 
an  education  well  understood  and  well  applied,  propor- 
tionately to  the  need,  the  intellect  and  the  station  in  life 
of  the  peasant." 

"The  trouble  seems  to  be  in  a  lack  of  convictions  and 
in  the  self-interested  purposes  of  those  who  govern," 
said  I. 

"Monsieur  a  bien  raison;  but  remember,  if  another 
war  of  1870  broke  out  now  many  chateaux  and  chatelains 
would  be  burned.     It  would  be  a  civil  war." 

"Yes,  perhaps,  and  that  by  your  own  fault.  You 
might  not  even  be  spared  yourself,  because  your  children 
)66 


FRUM    AMUOISK    TO    CHENONCKAU 

sow  destruction,  not  only  to  the  chateaux  and  the  nobles, 
but  to  society  itself;  and  you  peasants,  just  as  much  as 
\vc,  form  part  of  that  society.'" 

"Eh  bien,  bon  jour,  messieurs,  bon  jour  I" "  And  the 
two  men  went  back  to  the  little  farm,  half  shaded  by  the 
trees  and  shrubbery.  A  woman  came  out  as  far  as  the 
gate  to  meet  them,  and  we  heard  hor  say : 

"You  have  lost  a  famous  time  gossiping  with  those 
messieurs." 

But  the  elder  man,  in  a  subdued  voice,  and  looking 
around  as  if  he  feared  we  might  hear  him,  answered: 

"Stop,  my  wife.  Stop  talking  nonsense.  I  have 
spoken  with  these  messieurs  who  are  sitting  near  the 
well.  I  believe  in  the  truth  of  what  they  told  me,  and 
never  will  any  one  lose  time  in  listening  to  their  advice. 
Don't  you  think  so,  my  son?"  .   .  . 

I  looked  at  the  Comte  and  asked  him  if  he  had  heard. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  he  answered,  with  an  earnest  and 
rather  sad  expression.  "Yes,  I  have.  But  the  seed  has 
been  sown  in  a  very  hard  and  imfruitful  soil.  To-mor- 
row, this  evening  perhaps,  any  good  influence  he  may 
have  received  from  our  talk  will  have  vanished  forever." 

"But  why?"  I  persisted,  hardly  agreeing  with  the 
Comte's  pessimism. 

"Oh,  because  no  one  will  come  to  water  the  seed. 
No  one  will  come  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  him. 
The  bad  ones  alone  take  the  trouble  to  work  up  the 
peasant  to  their  ways  of  thinking,  because  they  are  con- 
vinced, not  of  the  truth  of  their  doctrines,  but  of  the 
necessity  of  having  them  believed  by  others,  in  order 
that  they  may  gain  their  aim  and  power." 

"But  why  do  you  not  all  work  together  and  fight 
against  such  a  power?  It  would  be  self-defense.  If  you 
do  not,  you  will  end  by  being  overpowered  by  the  mob, 
and  brought  to  ruin,  if  all  that  you  say  is  true." 

"Oh,  we  know  it;  but  we  are  so  few.     Then,  besides, 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

it  will  last  as  long  as  we  do,  and  our  children  will  have  to 
take  care  of  themselves." 

"That  is  an  unworthy  answer  from  one  who  represents 
the  old  French  blood,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  what  are  we  to  do  against  so  many? 
Time  and  God  will  make  it  all  right."  And  the  Comte, 
walking  with  bent  head,  fell  into  a  deep  silence,  broken 
only  by  these  words  uttered  with  a  deep  sigh:  "The 
trouble !     We  are  not  convaincu. 

"No,  you  are  not  convaincu." 

We  crossed  an  avenue  at  the  further  end  of  which  could 
be  distinguished  a  small,  white  spot.  It  was  Chenon- 
ceau ;  and  we  were  entering  the  village.  We  were  soon 
to  stop  in  front  of  a  small  white  plaster  house,  two  stories 
high,  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  village  street.  Above 
the  door  and  windows  hung  festoons  of  grape  vines, 
already  laden  with  the  ripening  fruit.  A  sign  which 
bore  the  words,  "Au  Bon  Laboureur,"  in  gold  letters, 
hanging  from  an  iron  rod,  swung  to  and  fro  in  the  wind, 
and  played  with  the  rays  of  the  sun.  A  neat-looking  old 
lady,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  white  lace  cap  on  her  head, 
came  out  to  meet  us  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  asked  us, 
with  many  airs  and  graces,  if  we  were  the  messieurs 
whose  bags  had  arrived  from  Amboise.  We  told  her  that 
we  were,  and  were  soon  led  upstairs  to  a  large  room,  over- 
looking the  street  and  a  little  garden  opposite,  whose 
trees  and  flowers  blended  with  the  purpled  roof  of  the 
cottages  it  surrounded.  A  lovely,  peaceful  scene  was 
this,  to  look  at  from  our  window  flooded  by  the  morn- 
ing's sun. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  very  comfortable,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "This  is  my  best  room  and  you  will  find  a  small 
private  dining-room,  near  by,  where  you  will  be  serv'cd 
alone.  I  shall  try  to  give  you  my  best  cuisine,  and  shall 
superintend  it  myself.  Ces  messieurs  need  nothing  for 
i68 


FROM    AMUOISE   TO    CHENONCEAU 

the  present?  If  they  wish  for  anything'  they  will  please 
to  call  for  it,  and  I  will  send  somebody  up  immediately." 
And  Madame  Desert  shut  the  door  behind  her — and  we 
were  really  at  Chenonceau. 


169 


Y .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


CHAPTER    VIII 


CHENONCEAU 


PART  I 

.         _.^   Ill  The   approach  to  the  chateau  is  good.      One  cannot 

A  Ah       deny  this  fact,  and  yet  it  fails  to  satisfy  one's  ideas  of  the 

fitting  surroundings  of  a'royal  residence.  It  seems,  in 
spite  of  much  that  is  beautiful,  to  be  inadequate,  to  lack 
something  of  the  dignity  and  grandeur  which  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  attribute  to  the  world-renowned 
chateau  of  Chenonceau.  All  is  "grandiose, "  all  is  upon 
a  massive  scale,  all  is  in  the  most  approved  French  taste ; 
and  yet  the  eye,  as  well  as  the  ideal,  would  crave  to  have 
still  more  and  to  make  larger  that  which  is  already  large. 
A  long,  straight  avenue  of  limes,  whose  branches  join 
and  make  a  leafy  canopy  above  the  head  for  nearly  half 
a  mile,  leads  through  the  park  to  a  great  open  court 
before  the  castle.  And  here  we  have  the  first  full  view 
of  that  inimitable  pile,  whose  grace  and  beauty  have  so 
long  been  appreciated  by  the  artistic  world. 

To-day,  alas,  nobody  is  permitted  to  visit  Chenonceau 
within ;  but  on  certain  days  the  park  is  thrown  open  to 
those  who  care  to  avail  themselves  of  the  privilege  of 
wandering  through  it.  The  present  arrangements  and 
the  present  owners  of  the  chateau  do  not  permit  of  a 
more  thorough  inspection. 

On  receiving  this  news  at  the  lodge,  we  were  somewhat 
••'.        -'-   I//      disheartened;  but  after  a  little  persuasion  our  cards  were 
A  A      3       carried  to  the   castle.      While  waiting,   however,    there 


t.t 


170 


T .  If 


CHKNON  CEAU 


T .  i 


T .  V 


V ,  Y 


Y .  V 


was  plenty  to  occupy  the  attention  and  to  draw  forth 
admiration.  Upon  the  right  of  the  great  court,  before 
mentioned,  stretched  the  stables,  a  long  line  of  white 
stone  buildings,  which  have  been  recently  restored  on 
the  original  lines  of  Philibert  Delorme.  Directly  in  front, 
the  castle  arose  out  of  the  river  in  all  its  beauty,  while 
the  picturesque  lodge  of  the  overseer,  hung  with  vines 
and  wall  roses  still  in  flower,  the  vast  "parterre  de  Diane 
de  Poitiers,"  looking  like  a  giant  oriental  rug  with  its 
thousand  patterns  and  colors,  all  of  flowers,  occupied  the 
left  of  this  exceptional  scene.  A  courteous  invitation 
followed  our  cards,  and  by  the  exceptional  kindness  of 
the  present  owners  we  were  thus  enabled  to  visit  in  detail 
the  most  private  as  well  as  the  most  historic  apartments. 

So  familiar  is  the  world  with  the  appearance  as  well 
as  the  historj'  of  Chcnonceau,  that  it  seems  almost  an 
impertinence  to  criticise  its  architecture.  However, 
before  availing  ourselves  of  the  kindness  within,  it  is 
difficult  to  refrain  from  stopping  at  the  first  drawbridge 
to  examine  the  architectural  beauties  of  this  famous 
chateau.  There  is  an  irresistible  impulse  to  detain  one's 
panion,  if  only  for  a  moment,  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
highly  ornamented  door,  with  a  few  of  its  impressions — 
impressions  which  sink  deeply  into  the  mind  of  one  who 
has  often  studied  Chenonceau  in  pictures  and  who  finds 
himself,  at  last,  face  to  face  with  all  that  it  has  to  tell  of  art 
and  history. 

We  are  now  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  large  square 
terrace  entirely  surrounded  by  a  moat,  the  waters  of 
which  are  let  in  from  the  river.  At  the  further,  right 
hand  corner  of  the  terrace  stands  that  well-known  piece 
of  feudal  architecture,  "la  Tour  des  Anglais,"  all  that 
now  remains  of  the  original  fortress  of  the  ancient  family 
of  the  Marques,  who  were  the  founders  of  Chenonceau. 
This  was  originally  a  large  castle,  and  covered  the  whole 
of  the  terrace ;    but  Thomas  Bohier  swept  it  all  away  to 


«7> 


i .  i 


Y ,  i 


f .  i 


i .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN     TOURAINE 

give  place  to  the  present  chateau.     He  spared  this  tower, 
however,   and  embellished  it  by  a   pointed  roof   and   a 
small,   hanging  turret,   to    which  he  added    some  good 
carving  about  the  doors  and  windows.     Thus  it  stands 
to-day,  an  old  and  picturesque  vanguard  to  the  fine  and 
delicate  work  behind.     That  part  of  Chenonceau  which 
was   built  by  Thomas   Bohier  and  his   wife,   Catherine 
Brygounet  —  or  what  is  known   as   "le    pavilion,"    the 
chateau  proper — is  by  far  the  most  beautiful  in  architec- 
ture.     The  fagade,   especially,   is  worthy  of    a    careful 
study,  for  it  is  here  that  the  richness  of  the  ornamenta- 
tion is  at  its  height.     The  door,  which  has  been  restored 
in  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  Renaissance,  is  surmounted 
by  a  heavy  balcony  of  carved  stone,  flanked  by  two  semi- 
circular brackets  which  seem  to  hang,  almost  like  lan- 
terns, from  the  wall.     These  form  a  striking  feature  of 
this  facade,  and  we  shall  find  them  recurring  again  in  the 
round   comer    towers    and  upon   the   stonework   of  the 
drawbridge.      The   battlements  and   machicoulis  at  the 
tops  of  the  former  were  of  but  little  use  in  the  luxurious 
and  peaceful  times  of  the  Renaissance,  and  here  they  are 
replaced   by    delicate    entablatures    and    pointed    roofs. 
Their  pinarets    of  ironwork  rise  to-day  like   shortened 
spires  above  the  roof  between  them,  and  the  beauty  of 
their    symmetry    is    enhanced    by    a    high    grating    of 
intricately-wrought    iron.     The  tall  Gothic   windows  of 
the  chapel  are  as  perfect  and  as  fine  as  lace;   but  the 
pilasters  which  divide  them  disappoint  the  eye,  in  that 
they  are  perfectly  bare.     Their  flat  and  glaring  surfaces 
are  a  shock,  after  the  delicate  ornamentations  of  the  roof, 
after  the  richness  of  the  windows  which  they  accentuate. 
"We  had  almost  anticipated  a  wealth  of  carving  after  see- 
ing their  surroundings. 

The  three  windows  in  the  roof  of  the  pavilion  are  more 
satisfying,  and  they  stand  out  at  once  as  the  most 
effective    portions    of    the    faqade.      Their    points    and 


C  H  t  N  O  N  C  L  A  U 

comers  of  white  stone,  arc  in  strong  relief  against  the 
dark  slate  behind  them,  and  thty  make  a  worthy  climax 
to  the  walls  beneath.  One  feature  of  the  architecture  that 
is  impressive  is  the  symmetry  of  the  whole.  And  it  is 
curious  to  remark  how  this  symmetry  is  always  to  be  found 
in  the  ensemble  though  the  detail  everywhere  is  of  a 
wonderfully  varying  character. 

Let  us  retrace  our  footsteps  for  a  little  and  turn  to  the 
left,  that  we  may  thus  obtain  a  view  of  the  chateau  from 
the  "parterre  de  Diane."  If  we  walk  along  the  edge  for 
some  distance,  and  lean  over  the  wall  against  an  earthen 
jar  drooping  with  (lowers,  we  shall  see  in  perspective  the 
castle  and  its  long  galleries  over  the  river.  It  was  here 
that  the  artist  wisely  stood  when  he  drew  his  picture  for 
that  scene  in  the  opera  of  Les  Hugmenots,  and  here  we 
will  stand  a  moment  also,  noticing  the  scene  before  us. 
The  first  portion  of  the  chateau  is  the  pavilion,  built  over 
two  massive  stone  piers  and  the  arch  which  joins  them. 
Behind  it  stretch  the  galleries  entirely  across  the  river. 
They  are  built  upon  the  five  arches  of  a  bridge  con- 
structed by  Diane  de  Poitiers  to  connect  the  chateau  with 
the  park  behind  it.  In  later  years  Catherine  de  Medici 
finished  the  two  galleries,  as  they  stand  to-day,  one  on  top 
of  another  and  surmounted  by  a  high  slate  roof  that  is 
broken  by  eight  ornamented  windows.  The  architecture 
here  is  that  of  Henry  II  and  Henry  III,  inferior  in  its 
contour,  as  well  as  in  its  detail,  to  that  of  Thomas  Bohier. 
But  it  is  safe  to  say  that  without  these  galleries  Chenon- 
ceau  would  lose  much  of  its  character  and  its  beauty. 
Let  us  therefore  treat  this  portion  of  the  chateau  with 
respect,  judging  it  from  its  good  points,  which  are  not  to 
be  despised.  The  pillars  of  the  bridge  project  beyond 
the  walls  and  are  pointed,  in  order  to  withstand  more 
easily  the  current  of  the  stream.  These  are  carried  up  to 
the  second  story,  in  tower-like  form,  and  there  they  end 
in  miniature  terraces.     It  is  perhaps  a  question  whether 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


this  was  a  happy  method  of  breaking  the  even  surface  of 
this  fagade.  The  semicircular  projections  are  a  little 
lacking  in  ornamentation,  and  the  effect  is  enhanced  by 
windows  which  divide  their  centres.  The  four  windows 
between  them  strike  one  as  being  a  little  inadequate, 
both  in  size  and  in  decoration,  and  they  contrast  strongly 
with  the  double  rows  above.  But  we  are  glad  to  recog- 
nize, here  as  elsewhere,  that  sign  of  all  good  architecture, 
namely,  the  strong  horizontal  lines  which  assume  almost 
the  importance  of  cornices  between  the  different  stories. 
The  double  row  above  the  first  story  is  especially  prom- 
y  .      inent;  and  the  cornices  of  the  roofs  are  at  all  points  in 

A  Ah      keeping  with  them. 

The  more  we  gaze  at  this  engrossing  picture  the  more 
we  are  tempted  to  pause,  the  more  we  are  inclined  to 
criticise  it.  The  roofs  in  front  draw  forth  our  admiration. 
Their  harsher  lines  are  broken  at  the  points  by  iron 
pinnacles,  by  gratings  standing  out  against  the  sky,  by 
graceful  towers,  by  the  stone  lacework  of  a  window,  or 
by  an  ornamental  chimney — that  often  hideous  necessity 
which  Chevalier  has  so  aptly  termed  "le  d^sespoir  des 
architectes."  And  yet,  as  we  contemplate  the  whole,  we 
do  not  hide  from  ourselves  a  certain  disappointment. 
Perhaps  we  have  idealized  this  monument  too  greatly 
before  beholding  it.  Perhaps  (like  some  people)  it  is 
better  in  a  picture  than  in  reality.  But  whence  is  it? 
Are  those  stones,  which  have  borne  the  atmospheres  of  so 
many  centuries,  still  too  bright?  And  is  the  richness  of 
the  door,  the  balconies,  the  windows,  in  spite  of  all  their 
decoration,  insufficient?  Is  Chenonceau,  with  all  that  it 
has  to  boast,  with  all  its  points  and  minarets,  its  carvings 
and  its  cornices,  still  too  bare?  We  long,  even  in  spite 
of  so  much  beauty,  for  a  more  elaborate  design.  We  long 
to  force  our  chisel  deeply  into  the  glaring  surfaces  of  the 
^.  .      many  pilasters.     We   crave  a  bit  of  tracery,   a  cornice 

k         A      u      ornament,  a  thousand  little  things,  in  short,  to  soften  and 

174 

i 


'i .  T 


T ,  T 


V .  i 


f ,  T 


T .  Y 


CHENONCEAU 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


tt>  finish  so  beautiful  a  beginning.  Were  the  stones  but  of 
a  softer,  deeper  hue ;  were  brightness  and  the  glare  of  day 
but  drowned  in  shades  and  shadows,  this  in  itself  would  be 
enough.  In  so  brilliant  a  light,  however,  more  carving 
seems  almost  a  necessity  to  give  to  it  that  artificial 
mystery  to  be  found  only  in  darkened  crevices  and  dusty 
corners,  to  give,  especially  to  the  galleries,  that  ancient 
air  of  poetry  which  its  age,  as  well  as  its  unique  position, 
seems  to  court. 

This  last  has  made  it  impossible  to  give  to  the  chateau 
those  surroundings  which  it  would  otherwise  have  pos- 
sessed. The  shade  of  trees,  the  lawns  and  gardens,  which 
lent  their  softening  notes  to  other  castles,  are  at  a  dis- 
tance here.  They  are  separated  by  the  moat-encircled  area 
upon  which  "la  Tour  des  Anglais"  stands.  The  sun 
pours  down  its  summer  rays,  unhindered,  upon  the  castle 
walls.  The  glare  of  day  intrudes  itself  where  the  privacy 
of  shade  were  better  placed.  The  air  of  poetrj',  of  some- 
thing yet  unseen,  is  lost  to  Chenonceau.  We  gaze  upon 
the  whole  at  once,  and  with  the  whole  we  wish  for  more. 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


PART  II 


The  interior  of  the  Chateau  is  more  than  interesting. 
Shall  we  call  it  beautiful?  Shall  we  call  it  artistic?  It 
would  be  wiser  to  leave  these  questions  unanswered 
until  we  have  seen  and  judged  it  for  ourselves.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  door  before  us  —  looking  not 
unlike  the  plumage  of  some  tropical  bird,  with  its  greens 
and  yellows,  its  reds  and  blues,  and  the  arms  of  royal 
masters  joining  with  the  humbler  ones  of  those  who 
have  inhabited  the  chateau — a  door  and  vaulted  corridor 
lead  to  the  luwer  gallery.  It  is  lined  with  stone  and  is 
comparatively  pure  in  style,  save  that  the  ancient  tiles 
arc  now  replaced  by  modern  imitations  copied  from  an 
ancient  pattern.     The  vaulting  of  the  roof  is  perhaps  too 

'75 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


brilliant  in  its  lately  restored  escutcheons,  from  which 
the  colors  of  the  Renaissance  proclaim,  "a  haute  voix, " 
their  recent  coats  of  paint.  Time  will  mellow  them,  as 
it  will  the  brightness  of  the  recent  restorations. 

The  first  room  of  interest  upon  the  left  is  the  ancient 
"Salle  des  Gardes."  At  present  it  is  used  as  a  dining- 
room,  and  has  been  elaborately  restored  in  the  richest 
period  of  Renaissance.  The  chimney-piece  is  worthy  of 
at  least  a  passing  glance,  and  it  reminds  one,  in  its  varied 
detail  and  its  heavy  carving,  of  those  that  we  have 
seen  at  Blois.  The  walls  are  decorated  with  a  series  of 
portraits,  let  into  painted  panels,  which  are  rich  in  coats- 
of-arms.  They  form,  in  all,  a  complete  collection  of  the 
former  masters  of  Chenonceau,  and  have  been  admirably 
copied  from  old  portraits.  Here  these  noted  characters 
look  down  upon  the  fates  and  the  fortunes  of  their  ancient 
chateau.  Some  of  them  are  scowling  at  the  doings  here, 
while  others  smile,  happily  or  contemptuously,  according 
to  their  moods.  First  upon  the  wall  is  Catherine  de 
Medici,  proud  and  cruel  as  in  life.  Francois  I  is  not  far 
from  her,  looking  not  unlike  Henry  VIII  of  England 
with  his  "manches  h  gigots"  and  his  flat  velvet  cap,  a 
long  ostrich  feather  flowing  almost  to  his  shoulder. 
Henry  II  and  Henry  III  are  also  in  their  places,  and  the 
famous  mistress,  Diane  de  Poitiers,  watches  over  the 
present  revels  of  Chenonceau,  revels  which  can  never 
equal  those  of  former  days. 

Let  us  leave  this  room,  whose  brilliant  restoration  is 
almost  too  dazzling,  and  let  us  open  the  door  into  the 
chapel.  A  carving  upon  it  of  the  apparition  of  our  Saviour 
to  St.  Thomas,  after  the  Resurrection,  stands  in  relief, 
to-day,  as  clearly  as  when  it  was  first  chiseled.  The 
interior  of  the  chapel  beyond  cannot  fail  to  satisfy  the 
artistic  sense.  Its  lines  and  its  general  effect  are  dis- 
tinctly Gothic,  and  they  are  in  strong  contrast  to  the 
character  of  the  room  behind  it.     The  windows,   which 

176  


C  H  K  N  O  N  C  K  A  U 

we  have  already  seen  from  without,  are  flamboyant  in 
their  jjroining  anil  their  tracery,  being  built  of  pure  white 
stone,  still  in  perfect  conilition.  The  stained  glass  within 
them  is  very  good;  but  we  have  not  time  to  pause,  or  to 
admire  it  in  detail.  The  altar  and  its  reredos  are  simple, 
and  behind  them  a  small  circular  staircase,  ornamented 
with  black  marble,  inlaid,  winds  a  tortuous  descent  into 
the  crypt.*  Preparations  for  an  elaborate  restoration  are 
in  process  here;  but  the  refinement  of  detail  is  rendered 
strangely  inconsistent  by  a  fantastic  drawing  in  charcoal 
of  a  huge  woman.  It  is  evidently  a  sketch  for  some 
future  car\-ing ;  the  woman  is  represented  as  reclining  in  an 
easy  manner  above  the  door.  Upon  closer  examination  the 
details  of  the  chapel  above  prove  to  be  of  the  Renaissance, 
although  the  effect  of  its  ensemble  is  Gothic — ogival. 

These  private  chapels  are  interesting  features  of  the 
royal  chateaux  of  Touraine,  and  they  are  so  bound  up 
with  the  history  of  their  masters  that  they  are  frequently 
of  more  importance  than  the  rooms  themselves.  As  a 
whole,  they  are  in  a  wonderfully  perfect  state  of  preser- 
vation, especially  when  we  pause  to  consider  the  number 
of  pillages  that  they  have  experienced.  For  in  spite  of 
the  fear  which  the  Roman  Catholics  have  always  enter- 
tained for  their  church's  wrath,  they  seldom  left  a  private 
chapel  in  peace  when  they  attacked  the  chateau. 

A  little  door  leads  from  the  chapel  to  a  terrace  or  bal- 
cony connecting  it  with  the  ancient  librarj'.  Catherine 
de  Medici  originally  built  two  chambers  over  this  terrace; 
but  they  were  out  of  keeping  with  the  facjade,  and  have 
since  been  torn  down.  At  one  time  the  terrace  was  used 
as  a  summer  dining-room.  It  must  have  been  a  pleasant 
spot  to  feast  upon,  for  the  view  of  le  Cher  is  very  pic- 
turesque from  here,  ending  in  a  stone  bridge  surrounded 

*  The  chapel  has  since  been  restored,  this  description  having 
been  wTitten  daring  a  visit  in  the  summer  of  i3<>4. 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

by  the  distant  trees.  Here  at  least  we  forget  that  barren- 
ness which  was  so  harsh  in  front.  Here  at  least  the  air 
is  filled  with  poetry  and  pictures,  and  upon  a  summer's 
evening,  by  the  light  of  a  "ver-luisant, "  we  may  almost 
distinguish  faces  and  figures  of  history  in  the  running 
waters  beneath  the  stone  balcony. 

We  turn  from  this  romantic  comer  to  visit  the  principal 
drawing-room  of  the  chateau,  situated  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hall.  The  waving  palms  and  cooling  walls  give 
out  a  faint  suspicion  of  the  atrium  of  some  Roman  or 
Pompeiian  house,  and  they  form  a  strong  relief  to  the 
richly  decorated  rooms  upon  either  side  of  it.  The  draw- 
ing-room itself  is  almost  entirely  modern,  though  fur- 
nished in  great  luxury,  and  is  very  florid.  But  the 
pictures  are  among  the  best  of  the  wonderful  and  almost 
priceless  collection  at  Chenonceau.  In  spite  of  the 
changing  fortunes  of  the  chateau,  it  has  always  remained 
intact,  and  is  said  to  be  so  valuable  as  to  be  worth  even,'- 
thing  else  put  together.  The  portrait  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Chateauroux,  by  Nattier,  is  the  most  beautiful  picture  in 
this  room. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hall,  a  door  built  at  an  angle  leads 
into  the  lower  gallery.  The  fate  of  this  enormous  hall  is 
indeed  a  sad  one  to-day.  Its  large,  square  tiles  of  black 
and  white  marble  no  longer  echo  the  footsteps  of  a  tyrant 
queen,  a  royal  mistress,  or  a  luxurious  monarch.  No 
longer  do  the  medallions  upon  the  walls  look  down  upon 
those  fetes,  those  banquets,  those  orgies,  with  the  fame 
of  which  the  world  has  since  been  filled.  No  longer 
is  this  river-cellared  gallery  the  haunt  of  a  court  whose 
excesses  outrivaled  even  those  of  the  Roman  emperors  for 
splendor  and  extravagance.  To-day  the  gallery  is  left, 
unhindered,  to  live  in  the  recollections  of  the  past.  One 
corner  of  it,  however,  is  not  entirely  neglected.  It  is 
evidently  used  as  a  children's  nursery;  for  cups  and 
saucers  on  a  kitchen  table  tell  of  "caf6  au  lait,"  of  bread 
178 


C  H  E  N  O  N  C  E  A  U 

and  milk.  A  sad  descent,  indeed,  is  this  juvenile  repast 
from  the  royal  feasts  of  other  days.  We  have  no  doubt 
that  it  is  less  injurious  to  bodily  health,  and  perhaps  to 
morals;  but  we  may  not  refrain  from  rejjret  that  this  his- 
toric hall  does  not  serve  to-day  some  nobler  purpose. 

Turning  from  the  gallery,  we  gain  the  hall,  and 
mount  that  beautiful  staircase  of  white  stone  which  is 
much  in  the  Italian  style,  so  popular  at  that  period.  Its 
steps  are  worn  into  deep  furrows  by  the  thousands  of 
historic  feet  which  have  passed  over  it  to  reach  the  hall, 
or  vestibule,  above.  The  ceiling  is  vaulted,  and  decorated 
with  panels  of  white  stone,  and  upon  this  have  been 
carved  human  heads,  fruits,  flowers  and  other  motifs  of 
ornamentation  which  were  new  at  that  epoch. 

The  walls  of  the  vestibule  above,  which  in  reality  are 
those  of  a  large  gallerj-,  have  been  hung  recently  with 
pieces  of  magnificent  Flemish  tapestry.  They  have  per- 
haps been  too  freshly  repaired,  like  all  around  them, 
"mais  que  voulez  vous?"  as  my  companion  replied  tea 
similar  criticism.  And  he  proceeded  to  discuss  the 
interior  of  the  chateau. 

"It  is  impossible  to  inhabit  a  castle  without  furniture 
in  it.  Of  course,  the  proper  furniture  for  such  a  place  as 
this  was  the  original  period — the  Renaissance.  But  alas, 
all  that  has  been  lost — sold  by  the  creditors  of  the  last  pro- 
prietor. It  is  now  floating  over  the  world  in  a  thousand 
channels — beyond  the  reach  of  any  one.  Therefore  we 
find  at  Chenonceau  modem  furniture,  though  often  well 
copied  from  the  old  and  set  off  by  original  decorations 
upon  the  walls,  still  in  their  ancient  beauty.  Sometimes 
these  are  oddly  accentuated  by  the  newer  effect  of  all 
that  they  enclose ;  but  on  the  whole,  it  must  be  said  that 
the  restoration  of  the  interior  shows  much  care  and 
knowledge." 

The  ancient  state  apartments  lead  out  of  the  gallery 
and  occupy  this  part  of  the  chateau.      The  only  room 
•79 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


r .  T 


Y .  r 


among  them,  however,  which  has  retained  its  historic 
interest  is  the  bed  chamber  of  Catherine  de  Medici.  The 
walls  of  the  apartment  are  decorated  in  the  manner  su 
much  in  vogue  at  that  period,  the  painted  canvas. 
Though  the  colors  are  darker,  they  remind  one  of  those 
at  Blois.  In  fact,  these  canvas  decorations  of  the  walls 
are  almost  a  study  in  themselves.  It  is  said  that  they 
were  made  at  a  special  establishment  some  distance 
from  the  chateau,  and  put  into  a  remarkable  preparation 
which  has  preserved  them  ever  since  almost  in  perfec- 
tion. The  ceiling  of  this  particular  chamber  is  decorated 
in  square  oak  panels,  painted.  Crowned  ciphers  of  the 
letters  C  and  H  abound,  and  these  are  interspersed  with 
the  monograms  of  Catherine's  children  surmounted  by 
their  royal  crowns  or  ducal  coronets.  The  ceiling  was 
probably  painted  about  the  year  1570,  when  this  famous 
daughter  of  the  de  Medicis  was  already  advanced  in  years. 
The  arms  of  her  family  are  also  to  be  found  among  the 
decorations,  and  their  six  balls,  or  globules  (palle), 
remind  one  of  the  various  discussions  and  comments  that 
have  been  made  in  regard  to  the  escutcheon  of  the  his- 
torical Florentine  family.  There  have  been  many  theories 
as  to  the  heraldic  significance  of  the  globules  and  their 
origin,  and  some  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  consider 
them  as  pills,  significant  of  the  original  occupation  of  the 
family  (who  were  said  to  have  been  chemists).  How 
much  truth  there  is  in  this  theory  we  do  not  know, 
although  the  origin  of  the  family  was  undoubtedly 
plebeian. 

Turning  from  the  room  just  described,  we  cross  once 
more  the  vestibule,  and  enter  the  climax  of  the  whole 
interior,  the  great  picture  gallery  over  the  river. 

Never  have  the  a.'Sthetic  senses  received  a  more  violent 

or  unexpected  shock  than  they  experience  upon  issuing 

from    the    sombre    rooms    of    "le    pavilion"    into    this 

extraordinary,  this  incongruous  apartment.     Never  were 

180 


T ,  T 


t.i 


'i .  T 


C  H  K  N  C)  N  C  K  A  U 


Y .  i 


V .  V 


V .  V 


harmony  and  good  taste  thrown  into  such  a  state  of  chaos. 
The  eflFect  is  not  unlike  the  sudden  explosion  of  a  thou- 
sand different  fireworks  over  the  calm  of  a  summer  even- 
ing. An  eruption  of  Mt.  Vesuvius  would  not  be  more 
confounding  in  appearance  than  the  walls  of  this  upper 
galler}'  at  Chenonceau.  Little  do  the  peaceful  river  and 
the  whispering  trees  below  know  what  a  battlefield  of  art 
and  taste  is  concealed  behind  those  fair  stone  walls 
Little,  even,  does  the  vnsitor  upon  its  threshold  expect 
the  sight  which  greets  him  as  he  enters. 

Imagine  a  gallery,  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet  in 
length  and  nearly  thirty  feet  wide.  Imagine  this  gallery 
lighted  by  eighteen  large  -windows.  Imagine  the  walls, 
the  ceiling  and  the  ends  entirely  covered  with  the  most 
glaring,  the  most  fantastic  of  white  stucco  figures  in 
relief.  Imagine  painted  figures  of  Bacchantes,  eastern 
beauties  in  nature's  dress,  or  more  properly  in  nature's 
undress,  lying  against  the  walls,  mermaids  hanging  from 
the  ceiling,  Turks  and  Arabs  in  oriental  attire,  all  in  the 
most  displeasing  forms  and  colors.  Imagine,  in  short, 
everything  that  fancy  may  conjure  to  the  mind,  and 
you  will  not  even  then  do  sufficient  injustice  to  this 
grotesque  scheme  of  decoration.  A  procession  of  all  the 
gods  of  mythology  winds  its  endless  way  around  the  gal- 
lery, in  and  out  of  hanging  figures;  and  a  myriad  of 
looking-glasses,  which  vary  from  the  miniature  lakes, 
reflecting  their  displeasing  surroundings,  to  the  tiny  bits, 
no  larger  than  a  snuflbox,  dazzle  the  unhappy  eye  on 
every  side.  Near  the  centre  of  the  gallery  a  species  of 
pulpit,  with  a  flight  of  winding  steps,  still  more  distracts 
the  wearied  eye.  It  is  evidently  made  of  Delphi  china, 
and  so  cleverly  constructed,  that  not  until  the  visitor  is 
close  upon  it  does  it  prove  to  be  of  painted  wood. 

For  some  moments  we  stood  in  silence,  endeavoring  to 
recover  our  shattered  faculties.  At  length  the  Comte 
began. 

iSi 


i .  T 


T ,  4 


r .  s 


i .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  more  fantastic  sight?"  said  he. 

"Never,"  I  replied.  "It  looks  more  like  the  unpleas- 
ant dream  of  an  excited  imagination  than  anything  in  real 
existence.  The  effects  are  more  worthy  of  a  theatrical 
extravaganza  than  the  interior  of  a  chateau  of  the  Renais- 
sance." 

"And  what  is  more,  you  cannot  imagine  the  cost  of  all 
these  decorations,"  the  Comtc  continued.  "The  lady 
who  is  responsible  for  them  was  ruined  as  completely  by 
their  creation  as  the  gallery  has  been  by  their  existence. 
It  is  said  that  in  the  end,  she  was  so  steeped  in  debt  that 
she  was  obliged  to  live  in  the  miserable  apartments  of 
'la  Tour  des  Anglais,'  until  the  chateau  was  finally  sold 
to  her  creditors.  You  may  well  imagine  this,  as  you  look 
at  the  endless  details  of  this  extravagant  mixture  of  art. 
You  will  probably  realize  it  more  fully,  however,  when  I 
tell  you  that  each  workman  employed  either  in  frescoing 
or  in  molding  the  stucco  figures,  received  a  salary  of  one 
hundred  francs  a  day." 

"Where  could  one  conceive  of  such  an  idea,  and  having 
conceived  it,  how  could  one  allow  such  things  to  be  exe- 
cuted, at  the  cost  of  one's  entire  fortune?  But  here  is 
an  oil  painting,"  said  I,  stopping  in  front  of  a  mytho- 
logical figure  carrying  a  banner — in  reality  a  painted 
panel  which  enframed  a  beautiful  old  picture.  Truly 
enough!  And  this  wretched  m}'thological  subject  was 
carrying  in  this  banner  no  less  a  prize  than  an  original 
Raphael.  There  it  hung,  in  silent  disapproval  of  its  sur- 
roundings. The  effect  produced  was  as  inconsistent  as  a 
Passion  Play  at  a  circus,  save  that  in  this  case  the  Passion 
Play  was  so  remarkable  and  so  engrossing  that  the  circus 
seemed  to  sink  almost  into  the  insignificance  which  it 
deserved. 

At  first  invisible,  there  appeared  upon  a  close  investi- 
gation, a  collection  of  pictures  by  old  masters,  seldom  to 
be  met  with  anywhere,  and  certainly  never  to  be  found 


C  H  E  N  O  N  C  K  A  U 


under  similar  circumstances.  One  by  one,  they  gradually 
unfolded  themselves  from  their  grotesque  frames — frames 
of  every  form  and  shape  that  could  possibly  be  imagined 
— frames  which  were  now  a  banner,  now  an  animal,  now 
a  building,  anything,  in  fact,  but  what  they  should  be, 
any  color  but  the  one  most  suitable.  The  art  of  Rubens 
was  surrounded  by  a  mass  of  painted  wood  or  stucco,  up- 
held by  graceless  Graces  or  by  gods  in  fancy  costume. 
Some  of  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  artistic  portraits  of 
Nattier  or  Philippe  dc  Champagne  were  tucked  up  into  a 
cluster  of  clouds,  or  placed  in  some  still  more  inconsistent 
setting.  The  inspiration  everywhere — if  one  could  even 
call  such  fantasies  an  inspiration — was  more  appropriate  to 
some  drinking  saloon  than  to  the  setting  of  a  master's 
work.  Priceless  gems  of  Poussin  and  other  famous  artists 
were  almost  lost  in  this  barbaric  luxury  of  ill-placed 
ornament. 

But  let  us  not  be  ill-natured.  Let  us  rather  endeavor 
to  forget  the  settings  and  enjoy  the  pictures  themselves, 
for  they  at  least  are  worthy  of  admiration.  Famous 
kings  and  queens,  royal  dukes  and  duchesses,  with  other 
persons  of  historical  distinction,  hang  in  silent  honor  to  a 
master's  hand.  Well-known  faces,  far  more  beautiful  than 
beauty's  hand  had  ever  made  them,  hold  us  here  in  an 
embracing  gaze.  Originals  that  we  have  seen  before  in 
copy,  copies  that  are  sometimes  better  than  originals, 
follow  one  another  in  a  bewildering  succession.  Perhaps 
the  finest  picture  of  the  whole  collection  is  the  "Descent 
from  the  Cross,"  by  Ribera.  The  force  and  coloring  of 
this  marvel  of  painting  are  engrossing,  and  hold  the  spec- 
tator in  rapt  admiration,  to  leave  a  deep  impression 
upon  the  mind.  Another  picture  worthy  of  attention  is 
a  pastel  of  Mme.  Dupin,  by  Latour.  The  artistic  grace 
and  coloring  of  this  portrait  give  to  the  student  some- 
thing of  the  same  sensation  which  a  beautiful  passage  of 
music  will   produce  upon  an  artistic  or  an  appreciative 


^ai 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

nature.  It  gives,  in  short,  that  exquisite  pleasure  to  the 
higher  senses  which  perfect  art,  perfect  music,  or  the 
results  of  perfect  genius,  only  may  produce.  Few  things 
have  more  power  to  please  the  eye  than  a  good  pastel 
of  a  good  subject,  by  a  truly  great  master.  We  remem- 
ber seeing  some  by  Greuze,  both  in  France  and  England, 
which  are  of  surpassing  beauty,  as  well  in  their  wonder- 
ful freshness  of  tints  as  in  the  delicacy  of  their 
treatment.  His  fastidious  talent  seems  to  have 
absorbed  in  his  colors  something  of  that  mist  which 
hovers,  in  a  bluish  gray  or  green,  over  the  forests,  the 
rivers  and  the  scenery  of  France.  Greuze  must  have 
inhabited  and  loved  Touraine,  for  the  poetic  beauty  of 
the  "brouillard  de  la  Loire"  is  the  same  which  charac- 
terizes all  his  work.  One  pastel  of  his  especially  we 
have  in  mind.  It  is  a  noval  portrait  of  Mme.  de  Pompa- 
dour;* and  those  who  are  so  fortunate  as  to  see  it  once 
will  not  easily  lose  the  remembrance  of  it. 

A  beautiful  picture  of  the  Three  Graces,  screwed  into  the 
wall  on  the  right,  seduces  our  thoughts  away  from  Greuze, 
leaves  them  to  mourn  the  fact  that  this  picture,  like  all  of 
its  companions,  is  so  injured  by  its  frame.  At  last  the 
now  famous  portrait  of  Mme.  Pelouse  looms  up  before  us. 
It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  picture  is  a  fine  one,  though 
we  fear  that  the  artist's  name  has  rendered  criticism 
less  impartial  than  it  might  otherwise  have  been. 

But  let  us  now  return  to  the  beginning  of  the  gallery, 
and  take  a  last  survey  of  this  remarkable  collection.  It 
impresses  us  more  and  more,  at  every  turn,  for  there  is 
seldom  gathered  together  in  a  private  collection  such  a 
representative  mass  of  famous  masters.  Some  private 
galleries  in  England  or  in  Italy  may  possess  more  works 
of  a  single  artist,  may  contain  more  "chefs-d'oeuvres"  of 

*  The  pastel  hangs  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum,  London, 
and  is  part  of  the  remarkable  collection  of  various  objects  of  art, 
known  as  "the  Jones  collection." — Author. 


CIIENONCEAU 

a  jmrticular  master,  but  verj'  few  in  France,  and  cer- 
tainly no  other  chateaux  of  the  Loire,  have  such  an  array 
as  there  is  at  Chenonceau.  It  is  difficult,  then,  to  realize 
that  any  one,  appreciating  the  value  of  such  beautiful 
works  of  art,  could  have  been  induced  to  consign  them  to 
their  present  surroundings.  It  is  difficult  to  realize  such 
apparent  vagaries  as  seem  to  have  controlled  the  ideas 
of  those  who  arc  responsible  for  the  decoration  of  this 
gallor)-.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  if  it  were  only  dismantled 
iind  redecorated,  in  the  dignified  manner  appropriate  to 
its  architecture,  if  the  works  of  art,  now  screwed  into  its 
redundant  walls,  were  rehung  in  gilded  frames,  the  gal- 
lery would  be  one  of  the  best  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
Certainly  to-day  it  is  unique — but,  alas,  to  be  unique  is 
not  to  be  perfection,  nor  even  the  approach  to  it.  As  it 
is,  one  can  but  close  the  eyes  to  what  is  bad,  and  open 
them  upon  what  is  really  good  and  beautiful.  One  can 
but  give  indulgent  reins  to  the  imagination,  and  pray 
that  one  day  an  artistic  fairy -godmother  may  transform 
the  gallerj'  of  Chenonceau  into  what  it  should  be. 

With  this  let  us  bid  farewell  to  what  we  have  seen. 
Let  us  leave  these  galleries,  these  halls,  these  rooms,  to 
weave  their  own  futures,  year  by  year  and  century  by 
centur)',  until  one  day  —  who  knows?  —  they  may  pass 
again  into  the  hands  of  kings  and  queens  and  mistresses 
unborn.  For  who  shall  tell  what  Time  has  yet  in  store  for 
this  favored  haunt  of  history?  One  might  well  spend  an 
idle  hour  wandering  through  the  flowers  of  the  famous 
parterre  and  weaving,  in  an  idle  skein,  an  imaginary 
future  for  the  castle.  A  fertile  brain  would  need  but 
little  more  than  these  surroundings  (now  that  the  sombre 
rooms  and  all  that  they  contain  have  given  place  to  sun- 
lit stones),  to  picture  personages  and  events  to  come, 
equal  to  the  many  that  have  passed  into  history.  Cer- 
tainly there  is  no  better  place  than  this  to  cause  the 
thoughts  to  fly  backward,  back  amid  the  trees  and   the 


1S5 


.?.      ^  TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

alleys  of  the  park,  to  the  times  of  former  kings  of  France, 
back  to  the  early  history  of  Chenonceau. 


* .  T 


T .  Y 


r .  Y 


i* .  V 


PART  III 

Deep  below  the  castle  walls  the  waters  of  le  Cher 
flow,  in  a  broken  course,  from  south  to  north.  They 
knock  against  the  sharpened  edges  of  the  bridge  and 
they  surround  the  chateau,  the  terraces,  the  parterres  and 
the  park.  They  wander  in  an  ever-changing  manner 
that  joins,  from  time  to  time,  the  whispering  of  the  green 
trees  hanging  above  them.  They  breathe  a  perfume  of 
flowers  stolen  from  the  "parterre  de  Diane,"  and,  as  they 
cut  the  meadow  yonder,  they  tell  in  louder  voices  how 
they  would  remain  still  longer  in  this  enchanted  spot. 
Perhaps  they  would  find  again  the  pleasures  of  bygone 
days,  together  with  the  intrigues  of  court.  Perhaps  they 
would  be,  as  then,  here,  there  and  at  the  same  time 
everywhere;  here  restless  and  noisy,  there  lying  half 
asleep  and  almost  silent.  But  listen,  you  who  are  so 
fortunate  as  to  pass  near  by,  listen  to  their  gentle  mur- 
mur. It  is  almost  a  whisper;  and  yet,  if  we  lie  close  to 
them  on  the  shady  bank,  perhaps  we  may  hear  them  and 
the  trees.  Perhaps  we  may  understand  the  language, 
spoken  in  an  undertone  of  Nature,  as  if  all  else  were  now 
unworthy  of  these  confidences,  these  tales  of  other  days. 

The  trees  bend  closer  to  the  running  stream  as  if  to 
listen,  and  we  also  draw  near.  The  waters  speak,  and 
each  drop  holds  the  ear,  and  catches  the  breath  of  those 
who  lean  upon  the  bank.  They  tell  of  Chenonceau,  of 
what  it  is  to-day,  of  what  it  was.  At  first  they  seem  to 
speak  among  themselves,  and  what  they  say  is  almost 
indistinguishable;  but  finally  we  hear  them: 

"Yonder,  upon  the  terrace,  behind  the  marble  balus- 
trade, do  you  not  see  a  woman  stamped  with  features  of 
eternal  youth?"  And  the  trees  answer,  in  a  thousand  whis- 
i86 

i 


T .  i 


( .  i 


T .  Y 


CH  KNONCi:  A  U 


T .  Y 


r .  1 


t.t 


Y .  Y 


pers:  "Diane,  the  famous  Diane  dc  Poitiers,  the  mistress 
of  our  king,  of  Henri  II.  She  walks  with  slow  but 
measured  tread.  She  wanders  through  the  paths  and 
alleys  of  her  estate,  the  gift  of  her  royal  lover."  The 
trees  take  up  the  strain  and  add: 

"Yet  the  world  has  always  thought  that  she  bought  it 
fi>r  herself,  and  paid  for  it  in  sounding  gold,  but  we 
know  better;  we  know  the  secrets  of  the  court  and  of  the 
king;  we  know  who  really  bought  it  and  who  paid  for 
it.  But  hush  I  She  is  raising  her  eyes  toward  the  walls 
of  her  castle,  her  ducal  castle,  for  she  has  been  made 
Duchesse  de  Valcntinois.  There,  to  please  Diane,  the  D 
is  interwoven  in  a  cipher  with  the  royal  H,  so  that  they 
shall  appear  to  be  the  C  of  Catherine  de  Medici — a  clever 
design  to  please  the  mistress  and  to  satisfy  the  queen, 
who  does  not  know  the  C's  are  really  D's.  Her  eyes  rest 
with  satisfaction  upon  the  arches  and  the  piers,  the  very 
piers  about  which  these  waters  have  played  for  so  many 
centuries.  See  her  yonder,  as  she  winds  through  the 
paths  of  her  parterre,  just  finished  by  the  gardeners  of 
Vemou,  sent  by  the  Bishop  of  Tours.  See  how  she 
covers  gracefully  the  squares  and  triangles  bordered  with 
flowers  and  rows  of  box.  She  pauses  to  breathe  in  the 
perfume  escaping  from  roses  growing  in  the  white  marble 
vases,  at  the  corners  and  on  the  balustrade.  Hush! 
There  she  is,  above  the  waters,  hanging  from  the  railing 
as  she  does  from  the  balcony  of  the  chateau  when  the 
king  is  there.  Behold  her  now,  sur%'eying  her  tiny  king- 
dom in  a  long,  sweet  gaze — and  there!  she  has  disap- 
peared amid  the  mysterious  bowers  of  the  park.  Perhaps 
she  is  turning  over  in  her  mind  the  future  destinies  of 
France,  and  perhaps  she  is  only  thinking  how  to  make 
Chenonceau  more  worthy  of  herself." 

The  trees  cease  to  speak  as  the  beautiful  Diane  disap- 
pears, and  they  listen  dreamily  to  the  ston,'  of  the  waters, 
who  now  begin  again : 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

"Henri  II  is  wounded  by  Montgomery.  Diane  leaves 
Chenonceau  to  hasten  to  the  side  of  her  royal  lover;  but 
she  is  kept  from  him,  and  after  ten  days  of  agony  the 
king  dies  on  the  loth  of  July,  1559.  The  mistress,  but 
yesterday  a  queen,  must  now  seek  the  protection  of  her 
son-in-law,  the  Due  d'Aumale.  Luckily  for  her,  he  is  one 
of  the  four  de  Guises,  and  the  cousin  of  Henry  III,  for 
her  life  is  already  in  danger.  Thavannes  has  offered 
the  queen  to  'cut  off  the  nose  of  the  mistress,'  and 
Chenonceau  is  lost  forever  to  Diane  de  Poitiers;  for 
Catherine  de  Medici  has  forced  her  to  exchange  it  for  the 
high  towers  of  Chaumont.  What  days  were  those  when 
Catherine  de  Medici  lived  in  the  chateau,  as  the  queen 
dowager!  From  1559  to  1589,  were  over  thirty  years  of 
continual  feasts  for  Chenonceau!  The  royal  chatelaine 
hid  there,  beneath  a  brilliant  court,  its  fetes  and  pleasures, 
the  crimes  which  she  committed  at  a  distance.  Chenon- 
ceau, itself,  was  mercifully  spared  these  crimes,  for  it  was 
never  to  be  the  scene  of  bloodshed.  It  was  bom  of 
love  and  has  always  remained  an  abode  of  pleasure." 
The  trees  bend  closer  to  the  river,  and  the  talking  waters 
are  lost  beneath  the  lilies. 

Later,  they  are  heard  again  whispering,  and  speaking 
louder,  the  waters  ask  the  trees  a  question  whose  answer 
we  can  hear: 

"Who  is  the  young  queen  and  her  royal  husband,  com- 
ing later,  coming  after  Diane,  and  with  another?  Who  is 
this  fairy  godmother  who  weaves  a  mantle  of  pleasure 
which  the  castle  wears  for  them?" 

"But  do  you  not  remember,  O  forgetful  waters?  Have 
you  so  easily  forgotten  those  memorable  days;  have  you 
forgotten  Mary  Stuart  and  Frane^ois  II?  And  do  you  not 
recognize  in  the  fairy  godmother  Catherine  de  Medici,  the 
proud  and  haughty  Catherine  whom  we  have  known  of 
old?  These  must  be  golden  ages  returned  to  Mediaeval 
days,  for  the  gods  of  Olympus  sit  at  feasts.  Mythologj' 
1 88 


('iii-:.N()N( 


CHENONCEAU 

walks  arm  in  ami  with  rural  deities.  Columns  of 
stone,  hung  with  great  wreaths  of  flowers  and  ever- 
greens, spring  from  every  bower  and  grove.  Altars  have 
been  erected  beneath  the  shade  of  trees  and  are  already 
laden  with  fruits  and  flowers,  sacrifices  to  love  and 
pleasure.  Triumphal  arches,  obelisks  and  antique  statues 
rise  toward  the  skies,  in  the  wide  avenue,  or  upon  the 
lawns.  Long  streamers  bearing  inscriptions,  taken  from 
the  poets  of  Rome  and  Greece,  flutter  like  dragon-flies 
between  the  trees.  The  murmur  of  a  gushing  fountain, 
the  crystal  notes  upon  the  water,  as  the  drops  fall  like 
pearls  upon  the  marble  basin,  lend  an  imposing  note  to 
the  songs  of  Bacchus  upon  the  green. 

"And  do  you  remember  the  Sunday,  following  the  ad 
of  May,  1577,  when  Catherine  gave  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  her  feasts?  It  was  given  in  honor  of  her  two  sons, 
Henri  III  and  the  Due  d'Alenqon,  who  had  won  the 
victory  of  'la  Charitd.'  The  table  was  laid  upon  the 
lawn  of  the  gardens,  behind  the  tower,  for  the  banquet 
was  to  take  place  out  of  doors.  The  king  appeared, 
dressed  as  a  woman,  as  was  his  custom.  His  doublet, 
open,  left  bare  his  throat,  which  was  covered  with  three 
rows  of  pearls.  He  wore  three  collars  made  of  linen,  two 
of  which  were  ruffs,  and  the  third  turned  down,  according 
to  the  custom  of  the  ladies  at  his  court. 

"  'Si  qu'au  premier  abord  cbascun  etoit  en  peine 
S'il  voyait  un  roy-femme  ou  un  homme-reyne.'* 

"Around  him  gathered  his  parrots,  his  monkeys,  his 
dogs,  all  who  partook  their  master's  pleasures.  Below 
the  king,  at  his  table,  sat  his  'mignons'  and  his  favor- 
ites, with  curled  hair  and  painted  faces  like  their 
master.  They  too  wore  ruffs  about  their  necks,  twelve 
inches  wide.      And    lastly   came    the    queen    dowager, 

•  Quotation  from  a  contemporarj*  poet. 
189 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  V 


T .  T 


tJ 


Catherine,  although  more  than  sixty  years  old,  still 
delighting  in  this  orgie.  She  was  not  even  ashamed  to 
drag  at  her  side  her  daughter  Marguerite  and  the  young 
Queen  Louise  de  Vaudemont-Lorraine.  All  these  came 
forth,  surrounded  by  their  ladies-in-waiting.  These, 
with  the  other  ladies  of  the  court,  replaced  the  servants 
and  were  dressed  in  men's  costumes,  made  of  brocades, 
while  their  hair  fell  down  below  their  shoulders.  All 
drank,  all  sang."  .  .  .  And  the  whispers  of  the  trees 
and  waters  die  away  upon  the  summer  air,  while  we  are 
left  to  carry  on  the  history  of  Chenonceau  until  they 
speak  again. 

On  the  ist  of  August,  1589,  Henri  III  was  killed  by 
a  fanatic  named  Jacques  Clement,  and  with  him  died  that 
long  era  of  pleasure.  Now,  the  castle  lies  buried  in  the 
deepest  mourning,  and  for  twelve  long  years  Louise  de 
Lorraine  weeps,  within  its  walls,  for  a  husband  who  had 
bestowed  but  little  of  his  affection  upon  her.  She  trails 
her  long  widow's  veil  over  the  sombre  carpets  of  her 
rooms,  now  hung  in  black  velvet  embroidered  with  silver 
"larmes, "  and  with  heavy  fringes  of  the  same  material. 
The  ceiling,  which  has  been  placed  to-day  beneath  that  of 
the  lower  gallery,  shows  the  dismal  ornamentation  of  the 
room.  The  dull  grounds  of  black  panels  are  relieved 
by  the  crowned  H,  standing  out  in  white  or  in  silver  and 
surrounded  by  white  ostrich  feathers.  The  whole  ap- 
pearance of  the  room  is  sad,  to  suit  its  mistress'  mood ; 
but  the  lighter  shades  and  the  beautiful  work  are  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye. 

The  queen,  buried  in  her  sorrow,  leaves  her  room  but 
once  a  week,  and  then,  in  the  deeper  shades  of  the  long 
avenue  leading  to  the  village  church,  the  muffled  sound 
of  horses'  footsteps  is  heard  over  the  ground,  softly  and 
in  dull  cadence,  as  if  to  respect  a  greater  sorrow.  The 
horses  draw  a  coach  bearing  the  royal  arms  and  draped 
in  black  and  white.  It  rolls  smoothly  over  the  grass  and 
190 


CHENONCEAU 


Y .  i 


T .  i" 


T .  i 


over  llie  sand;  it  is  scarcely  heard.  A  woman  dressed 
in  the  purest  white  sits  alone  upon  the  cushions,  like  a 
ghostly  vision.  It  is  Louise  de  Lorraine,  on  her  way  to 
the  church,  there  to  pray  for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of 
Henri  III  of  France.  And  the  peasants,  as  they  see  her 
pass,  whisper  to  each  other,  "C'est  la  Reine  Blanche." 
And  the  waters,  too,  seem  to  awaken  at  the  name,  and 
they  answer,  telling  us  what  they  have  seen  and  known. 

"If  the  night  is  clear — not  too  clear;  if  the  stars  shine 
brightly — not  too  brightly,  as  if  half-hidden  in  the  milky 
way,  and  if  the  midnight  breeze  is  so  soft  that  it  does  not 
drown  our  murmuring  flow  as  we  run  on,  yonder,  through 
the  moat  and  through  the  Cher,  as  we  drip  from  the  bronze 
or  marbled  basins,  you  will  see  a  woman  all  in  white. 
She  is  beautiful  and  young,  and  her  figure  hovers  through 
the  midnight  air,  over  that  grass  which  was  once  pro- 
faned by  royal  orgies,  but  which  is  now  grown  with 
summer  flowers.  The  grass  is  bending  beneath  the  soft 
step  of  'la  Reine  Blanche,'  who,  driven  from  Chenon- 
ceau  by  the  creditors  of  Catherine  de  Medici,  returns 
by  night  to  visit  her  abode.  The  walls  that  were 
born  of  love  and  made  for  pleasure  have  rung  with  the 
voices  of  sheriffs,  selling  at  a  pittance  the  jewels  which 
have  hung  about  the  neck  of  Catherine,  and  the  dresses 
of  brocade  or  velvet  which  have  been  worn  by  both  the 
mother  and  the  son. 

"Now  Louise  is  dead;  but  still  she  haunts  the  castle  by 
night.  She  wanders  along  the  avenues  and  lawns,  at 
times  stopping  suddenly,  and  casting  down  her  eyes,  as  if 
in  search  of  something.  Perhaps  she  still  seeks,  in  vain, 
the  king's  love,  there  in  the  tomb  beneath  the  ground; — or 
is  it  only  a  souvenir,  a  trifle  hidden  in  the  grass,  which 
has  escaped  the  sheriff's  eye?" 


i .  T 


T ,  i 


f .  i 


i .  V 


One     evening — one    winter's    night  —  in   an   obscure 

corner  of  a  tavern  of  St.  Denys  rested  a  coflSn.     A  black 

191 


V .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


cloak  dotted  with  fleur-de-lis  of  tarnished  silver,  covers 
the  bier  and  sweeps  the  damp,  musty  tiles  of  the  floor. 
Around  a  greasy  table  sit  four  valets,  their  faces 
lighted  by  a  tallow  candle,  their  heads  bending  over 
their  game  of  cards.  And  as  they  play  they  drink,  as 
if  to  kill  the  time  more  easily.  A  distant  clock  strikes 
the  hour  of  midnight.  Each  note  falls  deeply  into  the 
dismal  night,  and  with  the  last  stroke  the  valets  lay 
aside  their  cards,  and  leaving  the  table  with  its  half- 
emptied  glasses,  they  rise  to  their  feet.  Turning  to  the 
dark  corner,  they  lift  painfully  the  coffin  to  their 
shoulders;  they  pass  through  the  narrow  doorway  and 
plunge  out  into  the  night.  A  single  stranger  follows, 
muffled  heavily  in  a  long  black  cloak,  to  cover  his  other 
habit.  The  mysterious  procession  is  lost  in  the  winding 
streets,  so  dark  and  silent  that  they  seem  to  join  with  the 
funereal  gloom,  leading  to  the  royal  church  of  St.  Denys. 
Suddenly  the  great  church  looms  before  them,  like  a 
giant  in  the  night,  its  stone  lacework  showing  dimly 
against  the  heavy  clouds.  Moved  by  an  invisible 
spring,  the  central  door  opens,  to  let  the  coffin  and  its 
bearers  pass,  and  closes  once  more  upon  their  heels. 
The  creaking  of  the  iron,  turning  on  the  hinges,  sounds 
in  a  ghostly  cadence  as  the  men  ascend  the  central 
aisle.  Four  torches  throw  their  uncertain  light  upon 
them,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the  coffin  and  its  bearers 
stand  out  against  the  walls,  against  the  tombs,  against 
the  half-lighted  vaults.  What  a  fearful  sight  is  this,  to 
watch  those  four  intoxicated  men  carrying  the  black  bier 
and  its  heavy  burden  up  the  church's  aisle!  They  stop. 
The  great  vaulting  echoes  their  faltering  steps.  They 
stagger  to  their  feet  and  start  once  more.  The  coffin 
wavers;  it  loses  its  balance,  but  regains  it  again. 

A  crash,  like  that  of  some  exploding  substance,  like  the 
dry  burst  of  a  thunderbolt  dropping  at  one's  feet,  like  the 
indescribable  cracking  of  the  bones.   .   .  .     Ah!    cursed 
192 


CHENONCEAU 


men.  .  .  .  what  have  you  done'  .  .  .  Alas,  it  is  too 
late;  the  coffin  falls  upon  the  ground;  it  rolls  over  and 
over  upon  itself,  and  breaks!  The  black  pall  is  torn  in 
twain;  the  fleurs-de-lis,  unfastened,  fall  upon  the  flag- 
stones and  mix  with  the  gray  dust  escaping  from  the 
floor.  Ah,  dust  of  kings!  Another  heap  is  added  to 
your  growing  pile.  And  this  is  all  that  remains  of 
Henri  III.  And  this  stranger,  bending  to  the  ground, 
collecting  with  his  hands  the  broken  fragments,  to  hold 
them  in  his  shriveled  clasp,  as  if  they  were  the  most 
precious  of  relics — this  is  Epernon,  the  last  surviving 
favorite  of  a  departed  king.  He  who  had  partaken  of  the 
pleasures  of  his  beloved  master  while  at  Chenonceau  was 
endeavoring,  after  many  years  of  religious  wars,  to  give 
to  him  a  last  resting-place  beneath  the  royal  vaults  of 
St.  Denys.  Nine  years  before,  in  Januar}',  1601,  Louise 
de  Vaudemont-Lorraine  had  died.  God  had  spared  her 
the  horrors  of  this  ghastly  scene. 

From  1601  to  1733  Chenonceau  belonged  to  the  Duchesse 
de  Mcrcdur  and  to  the  Vendome  and  Cond6  families. 
Vendome  (the  rival  of  Turenne  and  Conde,  if  not  their 
equal  in  militarj'  success  and  fame)  inhabited  Chenon- 
ceau for  a  short  time  only.  The  peace  and  calm  of  a 
castle,  far  from  any  town  and  surrounded  by  unfre- 
quented roads,  the  liveliness  of  nature  in  its  fairy-like 
frame,  could  be  of  little  attraction  to  a  man  so  dissolute  as 
was  Vendome.  The  noise  of  camps,  the  expeditions  to 
Italy, — "where  he  could  conceal  his  excesses  behind  the 
screens  of  easy  victories  and  false  dispatches  to  King 
Louis  XIV,"  as  St.  Simon  tells  us  in  "Les  Memoires," 
— were  better  suited  to  a  general  whose  life  was  given  up 
to  every  form  of  vice.  He  married,  not  inappropriately. 
Mademoiselle  d'Enghein,  who  was  known  as  the  richest, 
as  well  as  the  ugliest  heiress  of  her  time,  and  shortly 
afterwards  he  left  for  Madrid  at  the  head  of  an  expedi- 
tion sent  by  Louis  XIV  to  help  his  grandson,  Philip  V 

>93 


^a^^^^^a 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

of  Spain.  Vendome  was  over-fond  of  dinners  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  and  he  is  even  reported  to  have 
used  the  same  means  as  the  Roman  emperors  to  enable 
him  to  satisfy  these  tastes  more  fully.  One  night,  after 
an  unusual  orgie,  he  was  taken  ill,  and  died  of  indigestion. 
As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  he  would  not  recover,  his 
valets  and  his  servants  abandoned  him,  stealing  every- 
thing that  they  could  lay  their  hands  upon,  even  to  the 
sheets  upon  his  bed,  so  that  the  great  Vendome,  who  had 
lived  in  luxury  and  in  excess,  was  left  to  die  upon  a 
simple  mattress.  Thus  ended  the  worthy  successor  to 
Catherine  de  Medici  as  owner  of  Chenonceau. 

In  1733  the  Due  de  Bourbon  sold  the  castle  and  its 
estates  to  Monsieur  Dupin,  who  belonged  to  an  old  noble 
family.  He  had  served  as  a  captain  in  the  army,  and 
had  left  it,  on  account  of  an  "affair  of  honor,"  to  become 
Fermier  General.  This  position  was  a  most  remuner- 
ative one  during  the  old  regime,  and  was  much  sought 
after.  In  fact,  if  we  should  take  the  trouble  of  traveling 
through  France  and  of  noticing  its  most  historic  chateaux, 
we  should  find  almost  invariably  that  they  were  bought, 
at  some  time  or  another,  by  a  Fermier  General.  This 
office  was  usually  held  by  financiers  who  leased  the  right 
to  collect  the  taxes  of  the  various  provinces.  It  was 
small  wonder  that  every  one  wished  to  be  a  Fermier 
General,  for  that  dignitary  often  raised,  for  his  own  benefit, 
double  or  triple  the  amount  paid  into  the  public  treasury. 
The  office  was  suppressed,  however,  in  1790. 

Dupin  owed  his  position  to  the  great  financier  Samuel 
Bernard,  who  gave  it  to  him  as  a  reward  for  marrying 
an  illegitimate  daughter  by  Mile,  de  Fontaine.  This 
daughter  was  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful,  and  under  her 
care  and  influence,  for  more  than  half  a  century  Chenon- 
ceau became  the  rendezvous  of  the  highest  represent- 
atives of  literature  and  good  manners,  from  1733  to  1799. 
Fontenelle,  Buffon,  Montesquieu,  St.  Aulaire,  Lord 
194 


C  H  E  N  O  N  C  i:  A  U 

Bolingbrooke,  Voltaire,  and  Rousseau,  all  brought  the 
mind,  the  intellect  and  the  principles  of  a  new  school. 
Besides  these,  Madame  de  Luxembourg,  Madame  de 
RohanChabot,  Madame  de  Forcalquicr,  Madame  de 
Mirepoix,  Madame  de  Tonkin,  all  belonging  to  ducal  or 
to  princely  houses,  all  known  as  the  most  distinguished 
and  fascinating  women  of  their  day,  all  known  as  "per. 
factions,"  if  one  does  not  scrutinize  their  morals  too 
severely,  all  gave  the  fitting  crown,  the  worthy  setting 
to  this  royal  chateau. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  upper  gallery,  Madame  Dupin 
installed  a  private  theatre,  with  the  aid  of  Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau.  There  the  author  of  "Les  Confessions"  acted 
some  of  his  plays  before  an  audience  well  calculated  to 
appreciate  them.  For  many  years  this  relic  of  ancient 
times  was  left  untouched,  and  would  have  remained  in 
existence  to-day,  had  not  a  woman  of  artistic  but  more 
modern  taste  replaced  the  theatre  by  the  wooden  pulpit 
which  has  already  been  described. 

In  1769  Monsieur  Dupin  died,  and  each  year  his  wife 
stayed  longer  at  Chenonceau,  where  she  was  greatly 
beloved  on  account  of  her  generosity  to  the  poor.  In 
1793  the  Revolution  found  her  still  at  Chenonceau,  and  in 
those  days  the  waters  of  the  Cher  must  have  been  tinged  to 
a  reddish  hue  with  the  blood  of  victims  that  was  flowing 
in  them.  As  they  passed  beneath  the  great  stone  arches, 
they  must  have  whispered  many  a  sad  tale  of  ruin  and 
revenge,  and  on  the  stones  of  the  piers,  perhaps,  might 
have  seen  the  stains  of  blood  which  centuries  could 
not  wipe  away.  And  during  those  violent  days  a  woman 
more  than  eighty  years  of  age  was  spending,  in  the 
rooms  above  those  arches,  the  last  days  of  an  edifying  life. 
She  was  left  alone  of  all  those  who  had  surrounded  her. 
Her  husband  and  her  sons  were  dead;  her  nephew, 
de  Villeneuve,  the  only  member  of  so  large  a  family 
remaining,   had   fallen,  one  of  the  first  victims  of   the 

'95 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Y ,  T 


r .  1 


Revolution,  and  Chenonceau  had  even  been  appropriated 
as  national  property.  It  was  easily  proved,  however, 
that  Diane  de  Poitiers  had  bought  it  of  Thomas  Bohier  in 
an  unlawful  manner,  and  that,  therefore,  it  could  not  be 
considered  as  a  royal  estate,  so  that  Madame  Dupin  was 
safely  reinstalled  in  the  chateau. 

In  1799  she  died,  and  the  eighteenth  century  closed 
upon  a  freshly  filled  grave.  A  strange  coincidence — a 
century  of  revolutions,  of  new  ideas,  of  principles,  ends 
in  chaos,  dies  in  reality  to  live  in  the  memorj-  of  men  as 
the  most  terrible  period  of  French  history.  A  woman, 
whose  life  had  been  one  of  sweetness  and  of  generosity, 
dies  peacefully;  and  her  body  rests,  to  this  day,  beneath 
the  very  spot  where,  in  the  shade  of  trees,  far  from  the 
dazzling  rays  of  a  summer's  sun,  Voltaire  and  Rousseau 
must  have  ripened  those  ideas  which  were  to  foster  the 
Revolution  itself.  Her  memoiy  lives,  too,  in  harmony 
with  the  calm  and  peaceful  surroundings. 

The  nineteenth  century  opens,  and  with  it  Ren6  Vallet 
de  Villeneuve,  the  grand-nephew  of  Madame  Dupin, 
inherits  Chenonceau  when  only  twenty  years  of  age. 
Until  18 14  Monsieur  de  Villeneuve  was  engaged  in  the 
fulfilment  of  several  diplomatic  missions ;  but  afterwards 
he  came  to  live  at  Chenonceau.  The  careful  restora- 
tion of  the  chateau  then  became  his  chief  occupation. 
Unfortunately  for  his  purpose,  however,  architecture  in 
France  was  then  undergoing  a  period  prejudicial  to  the 
Renaissance,  and  owing  to  this,  some  errors  were 
undoubtedly  committed.  Monsieur  de  Villeneuve  fortu- 
nately understood  that  above  all  things  the  character 
of  the  monument  was  to  be  respected.  Madame  de 
Villeneuve  took  charge  of  the  gardens,  whose  taste  and 
style  she  borrowed  from  "la  Malmaison,"  while  lady- 
in-waiting  to  Queen  Hortense.  The  park  and  flower 
gardens  became  the  pleasure  grounds  of  the  rustic 
inhabitants  of  the  village,  and  of  a  Sunday  they  would  all 
ro6 

t 


•  9 


T ,  "i 


TA- 


i .  Y 


CHENONCEAU 


?tl^.;. 


come  and  walk  in  the  avenues,  play  upon  the  lawns  and 
sinj^  the  praises  of  the  chatclains.  Even  now  the  name 
of  \'illeneuve  is  a  loved  and  honored  one  throughout  the 
whole  countr>-side.  Many  people  recall,  with  tears  in 
their  eyes,  the  month  of  April,  1864,  when  Chenonceau, 
with  all  its  parks  and  its  surrounding  treasures,  was  sold 
by  the  heirs  of  the  de  Villeneuve  family. 

One  day,  in  passing  through  the  village,  we  entered 
one  of  the  small,  one-storied  houses  which  are  the  usual 
abode  of  the  French  peasants,  to  inquire  the  road.  To 
our  surprise,  we  saw  at  the  further  end  of  the  only  room 
of  the  establishment  a  beautiful  oak  cupboard  which 
might  have  dated  back  to  the  seventeenth  century.  It 
was  impossible  to  resist  inquiring  its  history.  An  old 
woman  who  had  been  knitting  near  the  window  arose, 
and,  looking  at  the  piece  of  furniture  with  a  loving 
glance,  she  said: 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  you  like  it,  for  it  is  our  only  treasure. 
It  came  from  the  sale  which  took  place  at  the  chateau 
when  Monsieur  de  Villeneuve  died.  So  you  do  like  it, 
then?  Look  at  it  a  bit  closer;  it  belonged  to  Mme.  de 
Villeneuve;  she  hung  her  dresses  in  it.  Yes,  yes,  this  is 
all  that  is  left  of  our  dear  master's."  And  her  husband 
added:  "Never  mind;  the  chateau  never  will  be  again 
what  it  has  been  under  the  good  de  Villeneuve  family." 

Nevertheless,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  if  the  later 
restorations  of  the  interior  of  Chenonceau  have  not  been 
successful  in  every  way,  it  has  been  a  wonderful  under- 
taking, and  certainly  well  carried  out  on  the  exterior  of 
the  chateau.  Perhaps  the  best  portion  of  the  work  has 
been  the  tearing  down  of  the  rooms  built  by  Catherine  de 
Medici  above  the  terrace  adjoining  the  librar}*,  for  it 
brings  out  the  facade  of  the  latter,  and  keeps  the  purity 
of  style  unbroken.  Those  who  did  all  this,  as  well  as 
those  who  decorated  the  upper  gallery,  have  departed, 
victims  of  the  undertaking,  and  the  waters  which  have 

'97 


i .  T 


T .  y 


r .  T 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

looked  upon  the  past,  for  centuries,  from  the  moats  and 
fountains,  have  departed  also.  New  waters  have  come; 
but  they  are  silent.  They  have  lost  their  cheerful  tattle, 
and  have  ceased  to  speak  to  us  by  the  river.  The  trees 
have  lost  their  tongues,  and  the  stories,  the  visions  and 
the  characters  of  other  days  have  faded  as  in  a  dream. 
The  present  weaves  out  its  own  unfinished  threads,  while 
the  past  remains  a  silent  majesty  that  never  will  return. 


198 


CHAPTER    IX 


ST.    AIGNAN 


The  next  day  of  our  stay  at  Chenonceau  was  a  Sun- 
day, and  as  I  awoke  my  first  care  was  to  throw  open  the 
heavy  shutters  and  the  windows  of  my  room  to  let  in  the 
morning  air.  It  brought  with  it  the  sunshine  mixed 
with  the  perfumes  of  August  flowers  and,  now  and  then, 
a  cool  breath  from  the  river  Cher.  I  leant  over  the  win- 
dow-sill for  some  minutes,  enjoying  the  beautiful  weather 
and  the  thoughts  of  a  successful  excursion  which  we  had 
planned  to  make  to  St.  Aignan  and  Valenqay.  I  had 
taken  a  wonderful  fancy  to  dreaming  upon  window-sills 
in  the  early  morning,  since  I  had  come  to  France.  My 
thoughts  ran  back  involuntarily  to  the  first  morning 
that  I  had  spent  at  the  Chateau  de  Persigny,  and  to  my 
happiness  there.  But  then  I  had  been  no  happier  than  I 
was  at  present,  and  that  was  saying  a  great  deal,  for  the 
charm  of  our  mode  of  traveling  was  growing  more  and 
more  upon  me,  and  I  felt  sad  even  at  the  thought  of  its 
coming  to  an  end,  however  distant  that  might  be.  I 
think  I  must  have  fallen  asleep,  thinking  over  the  peace- 
ful pleasures  of  this  rural  existence,  so  simple  in  itself 
and,  perhaps,  for  that  very  reason,  so  full  of  charm.  At 
all  events,  the  distant  note  of  a  church  bell  brought  me 
again  to  reality,  and  to  the  thought  of  getting  ready. 
Yes,  indeed,  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  for  the  Comte 
would  be  up  and  about,  as  busy  as  a  bee  over  nothing  at 
all,  before  I  knew  it,  and  he  would  be  wondering  why  I 
was  not  busy  also — over  nothing  at  all. 

Yet    I  lost   time,   and  a  good  deal  more  of  it,  at   the 

•99 


^a^^^a^a^a 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

window.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  for  the  picture 
was  so  engaging.  The  single  street  of  the  village,  that 
ran  beneath  me,  was  wonderfully  silent,  and  wonder- 
fully deserted  too,  I  thought.  The  only  sound  was 
that  caused  by  the  sabots  of  a  peasant,  going  to 
la  premiere  messe,  no  doubt,  that  he  might  pray  for 
some  one  or  something  near  at  heart.  And  now  the  si- 
lence was  again  broken  by  two  church  bells,  one,  that  of 
Chenonceau,  near  by,  the  other  that  of  the  little  village  of 
Cirray,  two  miles  distant.  The  one,  in  a  shrill  and  high- 
pitched  note,  the  other  in  a  deep  and  mellow  tone,  called 
the  respective  villages  to  worship. 

At  last  the  little  door  of  the  hotel  opened  and  the 
Comte  appeared.  He  was  going  toward  the  little  church 
and  did  not  see  me.  I  held  my  peace,  and  left  him 
to  his  Sunday  meditations.  Some  time  elapsed,  and  I 
found  myself  still  lingering  at  the  window,  gazing  into 
the  small  garden  opposite,  which  was  filled  with  all  kinds 
of  flowers  and  shrubs.  I  could  see  a  large  collection  of 
peonies;  they  were  very  beautiful.  Later  I  discovered 
that  the  garden  belonged  to  the  father  of  our  land- 
lady, a  quaint  old  character  whose  kindly  face  bespoke 
too  many  years  to  mention.  The  little  cottage  in  the 
garden,  with  its  trees  and  shrubs  on  every  side,  possessed 
an  air  of  rural  poetry,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
if  Washington  Irving  had  come  to  Chenonceau,  instead 
of  going  to  the  Alhambra,  he  would  have  left  even  a 
greater  legacy  perhaps  behind  him. 

"It  is  breakfast  time,  monsieur,"  called  Madame 
Dessert,  through  the  crack  of  the  door — a  very  generous 
crack,  in  spite  of  locks  and  bolts.  "If  ce  monsieur 
wishes  to  catch  the  train,  he  must  hurry.  Qa.  part  bientot, 
bientat,"  added  she  in  a  tone  of  great  anxiety. 

"All  right,"  I  answered,  "I  shall  be  ready  in  a  very 
few  moments.  But  please  to  have  my  caf6-au-lait 
brought  in  here." 


SI".  au;nan 

"Oh,  no,  monsieur;  that  is  impossible.  I  could  not 
have  allowed  ces  monsieurs  to  start  on  such  a  journey 
with  caf<S-au-lait  simply,  so  I  have  prepared  a  good 
d<5jcuner  for  them.  V^oyons  done,"  continued  Madame 
Dessert,  meditatively,  still  on  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
while  I  was  endeavoring  to  finish  my  toilet.  "Voyons 
done;  there  are  eggs,  sausages,  boudin,  and  cotelettes 
au  cresson,  with  a  bottle  of  my  best  white  wine  'Mous- 
seux. '  It  is  all  in  the  little  dining-room  on  this  floor, 
and  Monsieur  le  Comte  has  already  finished  his  eggs. 
^a  qu'il  faut  se  depecher."  And  I  could  hear  Madame 
Dessert  trotting  off  down  the  entry  and  felt  sure  that  she 
was  shaking  her  head  over  the  thoughts  of  her  unappre- 
ciated d<5jeuner.  I  must  say,  however,  that  it  did  not 
long  remain  so,  for  the  boudin  and  the  "vin  mousseux" 
sounded  particularly  inviting. 

"At  last!"  exclaimed  the  Comte,  as  I  entered  the  little 
dining-room.  "Hurry,  hurry.  Gobble  your  breakfast 
quickly,  or  we  shall  be  late."  And  he  proceeded  to  suit 
the  action  to  the  word. 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  I  returned,  "the  train  does  not 
leave  for  an  hour.  At  all  events,  you  will  not  be  late, 
for  I  saw  you  up  and  out  and  ready  to  start,  I  suppose, 
an  hour  ago  at  least.  Your  energy,  this  hot  weather,  is 
really  extraordinary." 

"Well,  I  am  French  in  that  way,  you  see,"  the  Comte 
continued,  hastily  drinking  a  glass  of  the  "mousseux"  as 
if  his  life  depended  upon  it.  "We  are  a  fidgety  sort  of 
people,  and  if  we  are  going  anywhere  we  always  hear  the 
whistle  of  the  train  leaving  the  station,  a  good  two  hours 
before  it  is  even  due.  We  love  to  be  ahead  of  time,  as 
much  as  you  do  to  squeeze  in  at  the  last  minute."  And 
the  Comte  had  finished  his  breakfast,  and  I,  alas,  had 
only  just  begun. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  ces  messieurs,"  said  Madame 
Dessert,  again  poking  her  head,  with   its  lace  cap  and 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y .  Y 


Y .  T 


strings,  in  at  the  door.  "lam  sorry;  but  the  omnibus 
will  not  wait. ' ' 

"Quick,  quick!"  shouted  the  Comte,  rising  hurriedly. 
"Are  the  bags  strapped?  Are  the  umbrellas  tied 
together?  Men  Dieu !  Mor.  Dieu !  I  have  left  my  brush 
behind.  Madame  Dessert,  tell  the  omnibus  to  wait  a 
moment  longer." 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  I  put  in,  "the  omnibus  has  not 
yet  even  arrived."  It  was  no  use.  The  Comte  had  dis- 
appeared and  was  busy,  frantically  busy,  with  his  bags 
and  his  brush. 

"Nah!"  said  he,  in  an  odd  little  tone  that  he  was 
very  fond  of,  as  he  returned.  "We  are  ready  at  last. 
Surely  you  have  forgotten  something.  Nothing?  Well, 
I  have  never  seen  such  a  person.  Do  you  never  forget 
anything?  There;  here  is  the  omnibus."  And  the 
Comte  pushed  me  before  him  into  the  vehicle,  for  fear 
lest  I  should  escape  him,  and  Madame  Dessert  turned  the 
handle  of  the  door  and  fastened  it  herself,  for  fear  (the 
good  soul)  lest  we  should  fall  out  of  the  door. 

"Allez,  cocher!"  I  felt  as  if  I  were  back  in  Paris  in 
the  Faubourg  St.  Honore. 

"Au  revoir;  bon  voyage!"  And  off  we  went.  Ten 
minutes  later  we  were  at  the  station. 

The  train  came  in  at  last,  puffing  and  whistling  even 
more  than  usual.  It  seemed  to  me  that  everything 
created  more  disturbance  in  starting  this  morning  than 
ever  before.  Perhaps,  I  thought,  because  it  was  Sun- 
day. That  was  the  only  reason  that  I  could  think  of. 
At  all  events,  we  jumped  into  the  first  carriage  near  us. 
Our  only  companion  was  certainly  not  prepossessing. 
He  wore  a  long  black  beard  which  had  not  been  trimmed 
to  its  best  advantage.  He  had  taken  off  his  large  straw 
hat  and  replaced  it  by  a  cotton  handkerchief  of  many 
hues.  His  limbs  seemed  to  hang,  indifferently,  from  a 
huge,  an  almost  circular  body,  as  if  they  were  in  some 


Y  .  V 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


S  r.    AICiNAN 

way  ashamed  of  it.  Our  companion  was  evidently  a 
second-class  Frenchman.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
that,  for  he  did  not  evten  take  the  trouble  of  moving  a 
very  large  foot  which  he  had  placed  on  the  opposite 
cushion ;  so  that  we  were  obliged  to  scramble  over  it  as 
best  we  might. 

The  Comte  poked  his  head  out  the  window  and 
called:  "Madame,  Madame!  Un  Petit  Journal,  s'il  vous 
plait."  And  a  woman,  holding  a  large  basket  filled  with 
newspapers,  came  and  handed  the  Comte  the  smallest  of 
French  papers,  le  Petit  Journal,  for  which  she  received 
one  sou. 

We  had  at  last  started  for  St.  Aignan,  and  we  would 
be  there  in  an  hour.  I  amused  myself  by  watching  the 
shining  waters  of  the  Cher,  that  run  beside  the  track  for 
many  miles.  In  six  minutes,  however,  I  was  torn  from 
my  silence  by  the  Comte,  who  had  finished  his  paper — 
from  beginning  to  end,  as  he  announced — and  thrown  it 
down  on  the  cushion  beside  him. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  in  a  triumphant  manner,  as  if  he 
had  accomplished  a  great  feat,  "now  I  know  all  the 
news." 

"Indeed?"  I  replied.  "It  does  not  take  you  very 
long." 

"That  is  precisely  why  the  Petit  Journal  is  so  popular," 
he  answered.  "For  one  sou,  and  in  four  short  pages,  the 
purchaser  obtains  all  the  news  that  he  may  wish  for ;  and 
this  is  very  convenient.  For  often  one  has  not  much 
time  to  read  papers,  especially  when  one  travels.  Here 
we  have  the  quotations  from  the  Bourse,  the  local  and 
the  foreign  news,  a  novel,  or  feuilleton,  as  it  is  called, 
and  last  but  not  least,  all  the  most  popular  and  sensa- 
tional robberies  and  murders." 

"But  how  can  the  news  be  well  given  in  so  short  a 
space?"  I  asked. 

"I  do  not  know  how;  but  it  is  very  well  given.     And 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

the  details  and  descriptions  are  so  accurate  that  the  social 
danger  of  such  a  paper  lies  in  its  very  accuracy  of 
detail ;  for  it  teaches  others,  who  may  have  been  ignorant 
before,  how  to  commit  crimes." 

"And  what  kind  of  persons  buy  this  paper?"  I  inquired. 

"Almost  everyone,"  the  Comte  replied.  "The  poor, 
because  it  is  cheap  and  sensational ;  the  rich,  because  the 
political  opinions  are  not  too  decided;  and  the  ladies, 
because  of  the  feuilleton.  I  know  many  a  grande  dame 
who  would  not  for  anything  miss  the  pleasure  of  read- 
ing her  Petit  Journal  at  the  regular  hour  every  morn- 
ing." 

"I  had  no  idea  that  this  rather  sensational  looking 
paper  held  such  a  place  in  French  hearts,"  said  I.  And 
as  the  Comte  seemed  inclined  to  discuss  the  subject  of 
French  journals  at  some  length  I  ventured  to  ask  him 
which  he  considered  to  be  the  best  of  them. 

"That  is  rather  a  difficult  question  to  answer,"  he 
replied.  "For  the  political  opinions  in  France  are  so 
different,  and  so  firmly  adhered  to,  that  we  seldom  read  a 
paper  of  another  party,  and  have  therefore  little  oppor- 
tunity to  judge  our  newspapers  as  a  mass.  Neverthe- 
less, I  should  say  that  le  Temps  was,  upon  the  whole,  the 
most  impartial  and  reliable.  To  be  sure,  it  is  more  or 
less  republican.  But  its  literarj'  worth  is  indisputable, 
and  I  really  believe.  Conservative  that  I  am,  that  any 
one  who  reads  le  Temps  every  day  for  a  year  is  bound  to 
acquire  a  certain  knowledge  by  so  doing.  There ;  you 
have  extracted  a  very  fair  criticism  from  me,  and  more 
than  you  would  have  received  from  many  of  my  kind, 
who  would  think  it  almost  a  heresy  to  praise  any  journal 
not  upholding  their  own  political  doctrines.  I  speak  of 
reading  le  Temps  for  a  year ;  and  you  will  find  plenty  of 
people  who  consider  that  if  a  man  begins  the  first  of 
January  and  reads  it  ever>'  day,  his  education  will  have 
been  completed  by  the  next  Christmas.  It  is  odd  how 
204 


S  r.    AIGNAN 

many  countries  possess  a  leading  newspaper  called  'The 
Times.'  The  Times  of  London  must,  I  think,  head  the 
list,  but  they  seem  all  to  be  good  and  serious  journals. 
I  have  yet  to  live  to  see  a  bad  Times."  The  Comte 
paused  a  moment  in  his  soliloquy  on  the  journals  of 
France  and  of  other  countries,  and  then  turning  to  me, 
he  remarked: 

"In  your  country  they  are  vcrj-  fond  of  'Heralds,' 
are  they  not?  Almost  every  city  seems  to  require  at 
least  one  Herald  as  well  as  its  Times,  for  self-respect  if 
nothing  else.  And  1  have  heard  that  one  city,  especially, 
not  content  with  these  two  alone,  has  combined  them 
both,  by  way  of  change,  and  now  rejoices  in  a  'Times- 
Herald.'  I  have  always  thought  it  such  an  aristocratic 
sounding  name  for  a  journal,  and  indeed,"  added  the 
Comte,  always  afraid  of  giving  offense  without  meaning 
to,  "and  indeed,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  in 
every  way  it  lives  up  to  the  high  standard  of  its  name." 

As  I  knew  the  "Times-Herald"  which  he  referred  to 
merely  by  reputation,  I  could  do  nothing  but  smile  at  the 
Comte's  remark  and  wait  for  him  to  proceed,  which  he 
did  almost  immediately. 

"As  a  Conservative  paper,  I  think  the  Gaulois  must  be 
considered  the  best.  It  has  often  a  very  good  editorial, 
signed  by  some  man  of  literary  note.  An  excellent 
article,  signed  'Tout,  Paris,'  speaks  of  people,  places 
and  customs  in  a  pleasant  way,  and  tells  also  of  con- 
temporary celebrities.  Under  the  heading  'Mondanit^s' 
are  detailed  the  doings,  the  marriages  and  deaths  of  what 
we  are  pleased  to  call  'le  Monde,'  which  in  reality  is 
nothing  but  that  small  fraction  of  people  whose  names 
are  forever  in  the  public  print.  Then,  above  all,  it  gives 
on  its  last  page  the  'Ddplacements  et  Villdgiatures,'  a 
column  or  more,  in  which  the  names  of  all  the  principal 
subscribers  are  noted,  with  the  place  where  each  one  is 
stopping  at  that  present  moment.     You  cannot  imagine 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  Y 


r ,  i 


r ,  i 


V .  V 


how  largely  this  department  of  the  Gaulois  contributes  to 
its  financial  success.  In  fact,  I  think  it  makes  itself  felt 
in  the  local  railroads  as  well,  for  many  people  are  so 
anxious  to  see  their  names  placed  in  the  Gaulois  (between 
those  of  a  princess  and  a  duchesse),  that  thej'  will  subscribe 
to  the  paper,  and  travel  about  from  one  place  to  another 
for  no  other  reason.  They  move  only  the  shortest  pos- 
sible distance — so  as  to  change  as  often  as  possible,  and 
they  have  their  names  in  print,  followed  by  that  of  the 
family  chateau,  which,  if  one  only  knew,  is  seldom  more 
than  a  simple  cottage.  Ah,  Vanity,  Vanity!  One  may 
always  depend  upon  finding  her  if  one  cares  to.  The 
Gaulois  has  found  her  in  the  French  character  and  turned 
her  to  account." 

By  the  time  the  Comte  had  finished  speaking  we  had 
passed  the  large  village  of  Montrichard,  with  its  many 
tunnels  honeycombing  the  foundations,  and  St.  Aignan 
was  the  next  station. 

The  Comte  looked  out  of  the  windovv,  and  pointed  with 
his  finger. 

"Do  you  see  the  chateau  in  the  distance,  crowning  the 
cliff  upon  the  other  side  of  the  valley?  There  is  a  little 
town  clustering  about  the  high  foundation  walls  upon 
the  left.  The  steeple  of  the  church  rises  hardly  to  the 
battlements  of  the  castle.  The  tree-covered  hillside  on 
the  right,  there,  is  the  park." 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "I  see  it  all.  But  the  lines  of  the 
chateau  are  indistinguishable  so  far  off.  The  whole  looks 
like  a  great  dark  patch  against  the  sky.  It  certainly 
does  not  appear  to  advantage  to  those  who  see  it  merely 
from  the  train." 

But  my  speech  is  cut  short  by  the  garde,  who  screams 
"St.  Aignan!  St.  Aignan!"  And  we  descend  from  our 
carriage  to  find  ourselves  surrounded  by  at  least  a  dozen 
omnibus  and  cab  drivers,  who  call  the  names  of  their 
hotels  and  almost  deafen  the  unwary  traveler. 


S  r.    AIGNAN 


Y .  T 


r .  V 


"No  voiturc  whatever,"  cries  the  Com te  in  a  tone  of 
authority.     "We  wish  to  walk." 

"But  the  town  is  two  miles  off,"  shouts  one  of  our 
persecutors. 

"Three,"  shouts  a  second. 

"Four!" 

"Five!" 

"Six!"  shout  others  almost  in  a  chorus. 

"Une  voiture,  messieurs,  une  voiturc;  seuleraent  dix 
sous.  AUons;  une  voiture!"  And  we  are  almost  torn 
to  pieces  by  our  anxious  tormentors. 

"No — o — o — o!  I  told  you  no,"  the  Comte  cries  in 
decisive  tones,  while  we  struggle  against  children,  boys, 
drivers  and  women  who  seize  the  bags,  the  umbrellas  and 
the  brush,  carrj-ing  them  all  in  different  directions. 

At  last  we  have  fought  clear  of  them,  and  are  off  upon 
the  road  to  St.  Aignan.  The  conventional  avenue  of 
lime  trees  stretches  before  us  in  a  straight  line  that 
seems  almost  lost  in  infinity.  This  is,  indeed,  the  land  of 
limes  and  poplars.  And  as  we  walk  briskly  along,  in  the 
soft  morning  air,  I  try  to  recall  how  many  chateaux  we 
have  approached  before  in  just  this  way,  and  wonder 
how  many  more  we  shall  find  ere  we  have  left  the  dark 
green  shades  and  the  gray  mists  of  this  fairj^-like  Tour- 
aine.  At  length  we  have  reached  the  little  town,  and' 
are  pausing,  here  and  there,  in  the  quaint  old  streets 
where  the  artistic  hand  of  time  is  oddly  linked  with  that 
of  modem  innovation.  It  seems,  indeed,  as  if  the 
three  thousand  inhabitants  who  form  it  would  affect  the 
importance  of  a  township  of  ten  times  that  number. 
And  the  result  may  be  seen  in  a  melange  of  electric 
lights  and  telegraphic  wires,  hanging  against  houses  of 
the  sixteenth  century  or  crumbling  buildings  of  an  even 
earlier  period. 

Shops  appear,  with  showy  windows,  built  into  some 
ancient  house  that  looks  ill  at  ease  in  these  surroundings. 


V .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

Little  knots  of  two  and  three  inhabitants  gossip  in 
the  doorways  as  we  pass  by,  and  further  on, 
an  old  woman  is  sitting  by  her  spinning  wheel,  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  street.  Cooks  and  maids  pass, 
on  their  way  to  market,  with  empty  baskets  on  their 
arms,  while  others  are  returning,  laden  heavily  with 
all  the  delicacies  of  the  season.  They  stop  at  intervals 
to  discuss  the  price  of  eggs  or  butter  and  to  know 
if  meat  has  changed  a  soil,  or  more,  during  the  last 
few  days.  Of  course  it  has  not !  There  was  no  need  of 
asking  the  question.  Meat  does  not  change  more  than  a 
sou  in  a  lifetime.  And  so  the  busy  little  life  of  the  town 
continues  to  bubble,  and  to  increase  around  us  at  everj' 
step.  We  are  pushed  here,  there  and  everywhere,  by  the 
baskets  of  the  marketers,  who,  however,  are  so  kindly  and 
good-natured  that  we  cannot  take  offense.  The  streets 
are  narrow,  as  well  as  hilly,  and  we  are  so  knocked 
about  by  the  men  and  the  women,  with  their  baskets 
and  other  loads,  that  it  is  with  difficulty  that  we  reach  at 
last  a  great  Italian  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  chateau 
above.  The  gray  and  eaten  stone  is  covered,  in  many 
places,  by  a  coat  of  moss  or  weeds,  that  grows  in  corners, 
and  appears  where  least  expected.  The  staircase  is 
shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which  gi-ow  out  of  a  deep 
cavity  between  the  fortress  walls,  reaching  to  a  depth  of 
fifty  feet  below. 

We  have  left  the  town,  the  life,  the  spirit  of  to-day,  all 
in  a  moment,  as  if  a  curtain  had  fallen  over  it  to  conceal 
its  being.  The  air  of  poetry,  of  Italy,  is  around  us,  and 
for  a  moment,  as  we  mount  the  steps  to  reach  the  court 
above,  the  mind  wanders  off  into  a  world  of  fairy  charms. 
This  scene  is  so  different  from  most  of  those  that  we 
have  witnessed.  The  glare  of  day,  the  harsh  whiteness 
of  unsoftened  stones,  the  French  chateau  of  the  Renais. 
sance  is  not  here.  We  are  in  a  soft,  dreamy  atmosphere 
that  has  been  wafted  to  us  straight  from  Italy  to  linger 


ST.  ai(;nan 

among  the  leaves  and  branches,  and  we  breathe  enchant- 
ment in  this  poetry-laden  air.  In  another  moment  it  has 
passed,  and  we  stand  upon  the  platform  upon  which  the 
chateau  is  built. 

A  mass  of  ornamented  towers,  some  dismantled,  others 
white  and  new,  rises  up  before  us.  Windows  with 
Renaissance  carving  about  them  stand  out  at  all  points, 
while  their  side-stones  are  inlaid  with  black  Italian 
marble.  Side  by  side  with  these  are  modem  windows, 
harsh  and  without  style,  with  freshly  painted  iron  shut- 
ters. Orange  trees  stand  half-buried  in  their  painted 
boxes,  and  hide  the  lower  portion  of  this  facade,  whose 
architecture  but  faintly  suggests  that  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  A  parterre  covered  with  beds  of  flowers  leads 
to  a  long  terrace  shut  in  by  a  stone  parapet  which  over- 
looks the  Cher.  At  the  further  end  of  this  terrace  is  one 
of  the  fa9ades  of  the  chateau,  white  and  new,  and 
which,  "notw^ithstanding  a  coronet  and  monogram,  and 
Renaissance  windows  in  the  roof,  looks  more  like  a 
modem  Italian  pa\-ilion.  A  chapel  near  by  of  the  six- 
teenth centur}-  has  been  restored  with  taste  and  care. 
On  the  southeast  of  the  chateau  there  stands  a  tower  in 
modem  imitation  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  three 
escutcheons  rising  above  its  battlements  produce  an  effect 
more  curious  than  happy.  The  door,  however,  is  a  good 
example  of  the  flamboyant  detail  of  that  period. 

This  chaos  of  stones,  so  new  and  white,  beaten  by  the 
winds  and  eaten  by  the  frosts  and  rain,  this  strange 
mixture  of  the  harsh  and  the  rude  with  the  soft  and  the 
poetic,  these  modem  lines  placed  side  by  side  with  Gothic 
minarets,  this  tower — called  "the  tower  of  Agar, "  the  last 
remains  of  the  castle  of  the  Barons  of  Donzy — this  col- 
lection of  buildings  of  every  period,  from  the  fifteenth  to 
the  seventeenth  centuries,  on  which  Time  has  left  the 
deepening  signs  of  its  passage  unassisted  by  art — all  these 
attract  the  eye,  as  they  mislead  the  taste.  Unconsciously 
109 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

we  admire  it,  although  we  are  constrained  to  feel  how 
much  more  beautiful  it  might  have  been. 

We  turn  from  the  chateau,  and  pass  through  an  arch- 
way whose  gray  stones  have  been  clad  in  i\'y.  We  cross 
a  wooden  bridge  thrown  over  a  deep  ravine,  and  a  few 
steps  bring  us  to  a  park,  thus  separated  from  the  chateau. 
It  has  been  laid  out  by  a  master's  hand  and  is,  beyond 
doubt,  one  of  the  most  graceful  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
perfect  ones  in  all  Touraine.  Though  small  in  its  pro- 
portions, it  has  been  made,  through  the  cleverness  of  its 
designs,  to  appear  much  larger  than  it  is  in  reality.  On 
entering  this  park  we  find  oiirselves  at  one  end  of  an 
oblong  terrace  cut  into  the  hillside.  So  long  is  this  ter- 
race that  the  trunks  of  the  tree  at  its  furthest  end  are 
almost  indistinguishable ;  and  it  is  so  wide  that  a  person 
walking  on  one  side  of  it  cannot  be  recognized  by  those 
upon  the  opposite. 

A  broad,  graceful  path  runs  along  the  curved  outline  of 
the  left.  It  is  shaded  by  a  wall  of  laurels,  meadow 
sweets  and  other  shrubs,  themselves  enshadowed  by  the 
higher  trees  behind.  This  is  cut  sharply,  here  and  there, 
by  a  path,  an  alley,  or  an  avenue  of  grass  leading  to 
unknown  bowers.  It  is  shaded  by  the  soft  foliage  around 
and  above  it.  The  ivy-covered  ground  is  like  a  softened 
carpet  beneath  the  feet,  and  in  the  distance  it  is  lost  in 
this  maze  of  green.  The  alley  itself  seems  to  have  been 
made  for  love  and  poetry,  and  inspires  romantic  pictures 
in  the  mind. 

"Let  us  take  one  of  these  paths,"  said  I  to  my  com- 
panion. "This  one  in  which  we  stand  seems  to  be  with- 
out limit,  without  end.  What  a  place  to  linger  in, 
surrounded  by  all  those  things  that  tend  to  please  and 
soften  the  heart,  and  to  fill  it  with  thoughts  of  the  loves  and 
enchantments  of  other  days  that  would  last  as  long  as  the 
path  itself — forever!  See,  the  shadows  fan  the  ground, 
moved  to  and  fro  by  the  soft  air  that  fades  away,  even 

2IO 


ST.    AIGNAN 

while  we  speak.  The  very  daylight  seems  to  respect  the 
sanctity  of  this  enchanted  spot." 

"Come,"  said  the  Comte,  laying  his  hand  gently  on 
my  arm.  "Come  and  see  how  short  a  thing  your  love 
would  be  if  it  lived  no  longer  than  this  deceiving  path. 
Alas,  this  wall  of  leaves  is  not  impenetrable,  though  it 
appears  as  solid  as  if  made  of  stones.  Sec,  the  sunlight 
already  makes  its  way  through  the  green.  The  leaves 
and  foliage  grow  thin.  Soon  the  shades  and  shadows  of 
the  poetry  and  love  of  those  long  past  will  have  faded 
altogether,  and  all  will  change.  And  the  maze  also,  as 
we  pass  on,  has  only  the  depth  of  a  curtain.  Do  but 
draw  it  apart,  and  you  will  find  the  hilltop  covered  with 
vineyards.  The  trees  have  disappeared.  The  path  has 
vani.shed,  suddenly,  as  it  appeared.  How  sad,  indeed,  is 
the  delusion!  But  the  passing  hand  of  poetry  has  never- 
theless left  its  love-jewel  in  the  heart;  that  remains,  and 
we  cling  to  it  as  we  pass  onward." 

The  Comte  spoke  with  a  show  of  feeling  that  any  one 
less  sensitive  to  nature  might  have  questioned.  But  to 
me  it  seemed  only  in  keeping  with  my  thoughts  and 
mood.  And  as  we  turned  from  the  spot  where  we  had 
stood  some  moments  while  he  spoke,  I  found  myself  say- 
ing, half  to  my  companion  and  half  to  the  trees  that  now 
appeared  once  more:  "How  wrong  was  I  thus  to  test  the 
depths  of  this  beautiful  gem,  which  seemed  to  me  so 
truly  a  jewel  that  it  could  not  perish!  However,  it  is 
only  one  more  dream,  one  more  illusion,  exposed  by  that 
cold  reality  that  one  learns  to  dread  as  one  grows  older 
day  by  day.  Let  us  return.  Let  us  re-enter  our  dream 
and  forget  that  it  is  only  half  imagnnation,  and  that  it  has 
an  end." 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  Comte.  "  'Le  mieux  est 
I'ennemi  du  bien. '  Let  us  retrace  our  steps  lest  we 
lose  even  that  which  we  would  covet  the  more." 

We  find  ourselves  once  more  upon  the  terrace,  stand- 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


ing  at  its  very  edge  beneath  two  rows  of  slender  horse- 
chestnut  trees.  The  month  of  August  has  stripped  these 
of  the  blossoms  with  which  the  spring  adorns  this  favor- 
ite tree,  and  which  hang  from  it  like  bunches  of  grapes. 
The  carpet  of  pink  and  white  that  is  unrolled  upon  the 
terrace  in  the  month  of  May  is  no  longer  there.  A 
green  one  is  in  its  place.  The  thick  leaves  above  our 
heads  are  of  a  dark  green  also,  and  they  rise  on  high 
from  their  knotted  branches.  Far  down  the  slope,  upon 
our  left,  other  trees  are  dotted  here  and  there,  trees  of 
many  kinds  and  shapes,  of  many  colors  and  of  varied 
shadows.  Some  arc  blue  and  almost  silvery ;  some,  like  the 
cedars,  are  dark,  and  have  borrowed  from  the  willow  its 
weeping  countenance.  Others  of  a  grayish  green  are 
straight  and  proud.  Their  long  and  graceful  needles  sing 
faint  songs  to  one  another  in  the  breeze.  Others  still 
stand  apart,  as  if  left  in  solitude  by  their  would-be  com- 
panions. They  are  as  dark  as  night  and  almost  angry  in 
appearance.  On  the  very  edge  of  the  great  slope,  with 
its  trees  and  its  carpet  of  green,  and  behind  it  all,  winds  a 
line  of  silver  braid,  the  river  Cher.  It  is  indeed  the  Cher, 
that  same  river  which  flows  at  Chenonceau,  those  same 
waters  which  have  told  of  love,  of  orgies,  of  bloodshed 
and  of  death.  It  is  the  same  indeed,  always,  which  starts 
so  far  beyond,  and  which  runs  through  so  many  lapses  of 
history,  only  to  cast  them  finally,  with  its  own  waters, 
into  the  Loire.  Upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  wide  valley 
the  hills  rise  high  up,  crested  with  pines  which  overlook 
an  iron  fence.  A  wind-mill  in  the  distance  beats  the 
air  with  its  picturesque  wings  of  patched-up  canvas; 
and  lonely  poplar  trees,  so  tall  and  slender  that  they  seem 
scarcely  to  be  trees  at  all,  strike  the  landscape  like  the 
marks  of  a  pencil  upon  a  sheet  of  paper. 

We  rest  upon  a  wooden  bench,  beneath  the  horse- 
chestnut  trees,  and  gaze  at  the  dreamy  beauty  of  the 
scene  about  us.     The  freshness  of  the  air  intoxicates  the 


Sr.    AIGNAN 

nostrils  with  its  very  purity.  We  arc  lost  in  a  deep 
revery,  which  is  but  enhanced  by  the  note  of  some  strange 
bird,  invisible  yet  filled  with  music  and  desire.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  I  should  still  be  sitting  there  enthralled  by  the 
beauty  of  the  spot,  held  by  its  magic  charm,  had  not  the 
Comte  awakened  me  by  saying: 

"It  is  breakfast  time,  mon  cher  ami."  And  with 
reality  the  dreams  and  pictures,  the  chateau  and  the 
landscape,  the  lingering  thoughts  and  half-disclosed 
ideals  seemed  suddenly  to  vanish  into  the  sunlight  of  this 
French  atmosphere  of  imagination. 


"3 


**■ .  T 


T .  V 


r .  T 


CHAPTER   X 


The  chateau  of  St.  Aignan  was  behind  us,  spreading 
its  wings,  like  a  giant  bird,  over  the  clifE.  We  wound  our 
way  down  the  tortuous  hill,  through  steep  and  uncon- 
ventional streets  lined  with  picturesque  old  houses  whose 
pointed  gables  of  beams  and  bricks  projected  high 
above  the  narrow  sidewalk.  Before  long  we  found  our- 
selves at  the  banks  of  the  Cher,  whose  deep  waters  are 
here  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  white  stones  of  a  pier, 
and  on  the  other  by  the  green  fields.  The  stone  bridge 
leading  to  the  railway  station  guards  it,  upon  the  left,  and 
a  large  mill — not  so  large  as  to  be  unsightly — seems  as  if 
it  were  holding  an  intimate  conversation  with  the  waters, 
whose  result  concerns  the  miller's  welfare.  We  turned, 
however,  to  the  right,  following  the  quay,  and  stopped, 
before  many  yards,  at  what  is  considered  the  best 
hotel  of  the  place.  The  stir  which  our  arrival  created  in 
the  manage  of  the  hotel  was  such  as  to  bring  the  master, 
the  wife,  the  servants,  the  men  and  the  maids,  all  away 
from  their  work  to  hover  about  us  like  so  many  flies,  and 
to  take,  each,  an  individual  and  fee-anticipating  part  in 
the  setting  of  a  diminutive  table — by  the  window  of  the 
table  d'hote  which  overlooked  the  river.  Our  breakfast 
began  by  a  series  of  attacks  from  the  various  officers  of 
the  household,  who  came  marching  in,  one  by  one,  bear- 
ing the  details  of  our  meal.  First,  there  was  the  pro- 
verbial omelette  of  a  French  inn.  Then,  the  cold  chicken 
(the  fifteenth  that  we  had  eaten  during  our  journey),  the 
potatoes  en  robes  de  chambres,  grapes  which  would  have 
214 


[M 


Wa 


VALE  NC  A  Y 

needed  at  least  a  month  of  summer  sunshine  to  make 
them  eatable,  peaches  (bought  at  a  high  price  from  the 
fruit  seller  at  the  corner  and  sold  to  us  for  twice  their 
value),  and,  in  short — you  may  imagine  the  rest.  Finally, 
the  coffee,  which  had  nothing  in  common  with  that  deli- 
cious beverage  except  the  name,  ended,  not  inappropri- 
ately, this  inferior  ddjeuner. 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  we  are  jogging  along  the 
road  to  Valenqay.  Our  victoria,  perhaps  inferior  to 
those  which  we  were  accustomed  to  see  in  the  avenues  of 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  perhaps  less  brilliant  in  its  paint 
and  varnish,  and  a  little  out  of  fashion  in  its  superan- 
nuated lining,  is  at  least  comfortable.  My  companion 
goes  fast  asleep,  accommodating  his  afternoon  dreams 
to  the  rocking  of  the  springs,  and  taking  to  himself 
more  than  three-quarters  of  the  carriage.  Tucked  up 
in  my  corner,  and  wide  awake  myself,  I  find  the  drive 
delightful.  A  hill  on  the  right  has  forced  the  road  to 
nestle  itself  close  beside  it,  and  to  follow  its  contour, 
while  on  the  left  the  valley  of  the  Cher  is  flat  and  open, 
much  wider  than  at  Chenonceau.  It  seems  as  if  the 
river  had  kept  its  liveliness  and  its  smiling  surroundings 
for  Diane  de  Poitiers,  for  here  it  flows  between  two  barren 
banks.  The  grass  of  the  fields  is  hardly  green,  and  it 
looks  as  if  it  were  forever  covered  with  the  gray  fog  of  a 
September  dawn.  Here  the  water-willows,  with  their 
bushy  branches,  clipped  every  year,  are  the  only  trees  to 
be  found.  They  grow,  short  and  round,  by  the  side  of 
the  river,  or  in  the  ditches  which  divide  the  fields.  Those 
that  are  planted  by  the  roadside  have  longer  branches; 
and  often,  behind  the  trembling  leaves,  a  spire,  crowned 
by  its  cross  and  weather-cock,  and  a  few  white  houses 
covered  with  vines,  slumber  peacefully  in  the  shade  and 
tell  of  some  little  village  not  far  distant. 

We    turn  at    right  angles,  leaving    the    departmental 
road  and  the  Cher,  to  take  a  communale,  and  proceed 
2'5 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

along  the  banks  of  a  tiny  tributary  to  the  river.  The 
Department  of  Loire  et  Cher  is  now  behind  us  and  we 
are  in  that  of  I'lndre.  Behind  us  the  last  line  of  the 
distant  hill  is  lost  in  the  mist,  but  the  sun  is  now  burn- 
ing away  and  making  all  about  us  shine.  Suddenly  a 
large,  deep-colored  cloud  casts  a  shadow  over  the  scene. 
It  grows  larger  and  deeper,  as  the  cloud  ascends  into  the 
sky,  and  finally  it  covers  the  sun,  at  a  moment  when  we 
plunge  into  the  shade  of  green  trees  that  are  growing  in 
a  deep  vale,  where  around  us  nature  is  dark  and  sad. 
The  dust  of  the  road  is  caught  up  in  a  whirlwind  by  the 
coming  storm,  and  it  almost  blinds  our  horse.  The  men- 
acing wind  whistles  through  the  trees,  as  if  to  battle 
against  the  coming  rain  and  to  drive  it  away.  But  it  comes 
at  last,  and  the  first  drops  fall  upon  us  as  large  as  coins. 

The  Comte,  awakened  by  the  noise,  rubbed  his  eyes, 
and  scarcely  realizing  the  nightmare  which  had  succeeded 
his  dreams,  he  jumped  unconsciously  out  of  the  carriage. 
Once  upon  the  road,  he  put  up  the  top  of  the  victoria, 
which  had  now  come  to  a  standstill,  and  the  driver,  hold- 
ing the  reins  in  one  hand,  endeavored  with  some  difficulty 
to  put  on  his  rubber  overcoat.  I  alone,  quiet  and  peace- 
ful in  my  comer,  untied  the  leather  apron  to  cover  our 
knees,  and  fell  back  in  silent  contemplation  of  the  storm. 
The  Comte  returned  to  the  victoria  and  we  started  once 
more.  The  horse,  frightened  by  the  first  clap  of  thunder, 
quickened  his  pace  to  a  marvelous  degree,  and  plunged 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  heavy  rows  of  poplar  trees — 
always  poplar  trees,  extending  in  avenues  without  end, 
poplar  trees  as  yet  untouched  by  the  yellow  tints  of 
autumn.  From  time  to  time  a  peasant,  driving  a  herd 
of  cows,  would  cross  our  path,  pushing  her  indolent  ani- 
mals forward  to  reach  the  farm  before  the  drenching 
rain  should  come.  And  looking  at  them,  one  could  but 
wonder  how  it  was  that  the  woman  with  her  knitting  (for 
it  is  almost  always  the  woman  who  tends  the  cows  in 
216 


V  A  L  t  N  (J  A  ^' 

France)  could  spend  her  days  by  the  roadside  or  in  the 
pastures  with  no  other  company  than  this.  Strange, 
indeed,  to  think  that  sometimes  a  whole  life  may  be 
passed  in  this  manner,  without  the  knowledge  of  bet- 
ter things;  and  yet  how  often  is  it  happier  than  the 
lives  of  those  who  know  grander  conditions  which  they 
may  not  attain!  For  the  simple  peasant  kens  not  the 
painful  contrasts  of  the  world;  she  heeds  not  the  pains 
and  anguish  born  of  hopeless  longings  for  some  condition 
which  she  may  not  reach.  Yet  as  the  picture  of  the 
peasant,  and  her  sabots,  and  her  cows,  fades  behind 
us,  we  are  tempted  to  think  that  often,  as  in  her  case, 
ignorance  is  indeed  a  blessing.  For  there  is  little  in  life 
which  causes  more  unhappiness  than  unattained  ambition. 

Suddenly  the  sun  shines — more  brilliantly  than  ever — 
through  a  break  in  the  clouds,  and  its  sharp  rays  reveal 
startlingly  some  trees  in  the  distance.  In  front  of  us 
the  storm  is  raging  more  than  ever,  and  the  inky  clouds 
throw  darkness  over  everj'thing  beneath  them.  At  a 
turning  of  the  road  an  outline,  a  flash  of  lightning, 
tears  the  sky.  It  remains  and  grows  more  and  more 
distinct  as  we  approach.  What  is  it?  The  lines  cut  one 
another  at  sharp  angles,  rising  here  and  falling  there. 
They  show  in  the  lightning-color  of  the  clouds.  They 
are  lost,  in  fact,  in  the  clouds.  The  deep  color  about 
them  is  as  dark  as  night  and  the  whole  scene  mysterious 
and  strange. 

"Do  you  see  that  curious  phenomenon?"  said  the 
Comte.  "I  should  say  it  was  an  apparition  in  the  heav- 
ens. See  how  it  seems  to  move  to  and  fro,  as  if  pushed 
by  wind." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  replied,  "if  you  will  but  gauge  it  by 
some  steady  object  you  will  see  that  it  is  motionless." 

As  we  approached,  the  lines  stood  out  more  distinctly 
and  were  more  clearly  marked.  Gradually  they  as- 
sumed different  shapes,  and  finally  some  high,  dismantled 


\r^hf^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


J}» 


r.T 


V .  T 


towers  arose  upon  the  top  of  a  cliff,  marking  the  four 
corners  of  an  old  ruin.  It  was  Villantrois.  The  stones, 
perhaps  soft  and  gray  if  seen  near  by,  came  out  harsh 
and  hard  against  this  dark  background.  The  walls  were 
straight  and  void  of  entablatures,  and  they  showed  against 
the  sky  like  the  giant  cornices  of  a  feudal  fortress.  No 
windows  were  distinguishable  in  the  walls,  and  the  founda- 
tions were  lost  in  the  trees  which  covered  the  hill.  These 
grew  high  and  thick,  cutting  the  gray  mass  unevenly, 
and  looking  not  unlike  a  black  cloak  which  the  ruin  had 
thrown  off.  For  here,  there  and  everywhere,  in  the  light 
of  such  a  day,  trees  and  bushes  were  of  so  dark  a  green 
that  they  were  nearly  black,. 

One  would  have  liked  to  stop  and  climb  the  hill  to  see 
the  ruins  of  Villantrois  nearer — to  wander  up  by  the 
paths  which  looked  as  if  they  were  made  only  for  goats 
or  sheep.  One  might  easily  have  lost  oneself  amid  the 
souvenirs  of  the  past,  rebuilding  in  the  mind  the 
crumbling  towers,  refurnishing,  bit  by  bit,  room  by 
room,  the  chateau,  and  there  living  a  life  lived  by  those 
of  other  days.  But,  alas,  the  scene  has  changed  once 
more.  The  storm  is  raging  more  fiercely  than  before, 
and  we  must  hurry  on  to  Valengay. 

The  first  road  to  the  left  takes  us  across  fields,  up  hills, 
and  into  hollows,  only  to  climb  once  more  the  eminence 
upon  which  the  forest  of  Valengay,  one  of  the  few  private 
forests  of  France,  stretches  for  many  miles  in  all  direc- 
tions. Many  roads  cross  ours  here,  and  at  the  intersec- 
tion stands  an  iron  cross.  Upon  its  arms  hang  a  quantity 
of  little  wooden  crosses  painted  black.  The  fact  is  worth 
noticing,  for  it  is  a  custom  in  this  portion  of  the  country 
to  hang  a  wooden  cross  upon  the  iron  one  which  marks 
the  corner  of  two  roads  whenever  a  funeral  passes.  This 
was  evidently  a  favorite  road  for  the  dead  to  take  in 
their  last  journey  to  an  earthly  resting  place,  for  the 
number  of  tributes  was  verj'  large. 
218 


V  A  L  E  N  C  A  ^' 


T ,  Y 


V .  i 


t.t 


Y .  Y 


As  we  plunged  into  the  forest,  thoughts  of  the  ruin 
behind  us  occupied  our  minds.     We  fell  to  speaking  of  it. 

"Could  you  imagine  anything  more  romantic  or  more 
attractive  than  to  live  in  a  ruined  castle?  It  has  always 
been  one  of  the  many  dreams  of  my  life — one  too  much 
given  over  to  dreams  and  castles  in  the  air,  I  fear — to 
restore  some  corner  of  a  place  like  Villantrois  and  to  live 
there.  For  several  months  of  every  year  one  could  thus 
retire  from  the  temper,  the  unnecessary  excitement  of 
the  world,  and  surround  oneself  with  antiquities  and 
with  the  living  pictures  of  an  ideal  existence.  One  could 
study  there,  in  a  peaceful  atmosphere,  the  history  and  the 
former  doings  of  the  castle.  One  might  live  in  dreams 
of  other  days — idle,  some  would  say,  and  yet  perhaps 
useful  from  their  very  idleness.  There  one  might  build 
for  oneself  a  little  life,  a  little  world,  free  from  all  out- 
ward friction.  There  I  at  least,  and  I  think  many  others 
also,  would  be  perfectly  happy." 

"The  same  idea,  indeed  the  same  picture,  has  often 
occurred  to  my  own  mind,"  the  Comte  replied.  "But 
how  difficult  it  is,  in  the  turmoil  of  life,  in  the  hurry  of 
daily  affairs  and  plans  for  the  future,  to  carrj'  out  such 
an  ideal — to — in  short,  to  live  in  such  a  castle-in-the-air!" 

"And  yet,"  I  persevered,  "it  is  not  so  difficult  as  we 
make  it.  When  we  investigate  the  reason  which  prevents 
many  people  from  doing  so,  we  see  what  a  simple  one  it 
is  and  how  easily  it  might  have  been  done  away  with. 
When  we  are  young,  we  are  often  without  the  means  of 
doing  this  thing.  We  are  not  our  own  masters  when 
first  the  poetic  view,  the  desire  for  such  a  life,  takes 
hold  of  us.  And  when  we  grow  up  and  rub  against  the 
world,  we  receive  some  hard  knocks  which  harden  us  to  its 
ways  and  to  its  selfish,  restless,  aspiring  life.  We  are 
engaged  in  work,  or  in  some  affair  which  occupies  our 
time,  and  though 'we  are  often  wretched,  we  have  by  this 
time  forgotten  our  youthful  picture,  our  old  castle,  just 
219 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

at  the  moment  when  we  might  really  obtain  it.  We 
grow  older;  sometimes  the  castle  comes  of  itself;  but  not 
until  we  are  too  old  or  too  tired  to  enjoy  it." 

"I  wish  that  more  of  us  might  retain  our  youthful 
desires  and  ideas  in  after  life,"  the  Comte  answered. 
"We  forget  youth  very  quickly,  and  with  it  much  that 
makes  our  life  attractive."  And  he  concluded  the  con- 
versation by  adding:  "You  are  right  in  your  ideals,  and 
your  castles-in-the-air.  Cling  to  them  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, for  they  will  melt  away  all  too  soon.  Restore  your 
old  ruin  if  you  should  ever  find  it,  and  I  shall  count 
myself  as  lucky  if  I  am  permitted  to  come  and  stay  there 
with  you." 

We  were  now  forced  to  turn  our  attention  to  the  beau- 
ties of  the  surroundings.  The  avenue  upon  which  we 
were  driving  cut  a  straight  line  through  the  very 
heart  of  the  forest  for  nearly  three  miles.  Up  hill  and 
down  dale  it  ran,  but  never  turned  so  much  as  a  hair's 
breadth  to  right  or  left — "a  most  excellent  example 
for  human  nature  to  profit  by,"  as  the  Comte  facetiouslj' 
remarked.  Oaks  and  elms  and  pines  lined  themselves 
upon  either  side,  making  an  almost  impenetrable  wall 
around  us.  Here  and  there  at  regular  intervals  we 
would  come  upon  a  small  open  place  where  the  road  was 
cut  at  right  angles — or  often  diagonally — by  other  ave- 
nues. The  customary  wooden  gates,  painted  white,  told 
plainly  that  the  forest  was  a  private  one,  and  their  closed 
bars  bore  testimony  that  the  hunting  season  had  not  yet 
opened.  For  many  miles  these  grass-grown  avenues 
cut  through  the  forest  and  were  lost  in  the  distance,  in 
a  faint  vista  of  rather  leaden  sky.  At  one  of  these 
rendezvous  de  chasse  eight  avenues  met  one  another,  and 
a  white  post  in  the  centre  bore  on  its  sign  the  names  of 
"de  Dino, "  "de  Talleyrand,"  "de  Sagan,"  or  others  of 
the  famous  family  who  then  inhabited  Valengay. 

"Is  it  not  impressive?"  said  the  Comte.     "Here  the 


V  A  L  K  N  C  A  Y 

owners  have  met,  for  well  nigh  a  centiir)',  upon  their 
hunting  parties,  within  these  walls  or  avenues,  anil  among 
those  trees.  Before  the  days  of  the  famous  Prince  de 
Hcndvent,  the  great  diplomat  and  statesman  under  Napo- 
leon, perhaps  even  the  Emperor  himself  has  hunted 
in  the  forest." 

I  saw  by  the  way  in  which  the  Comte  had  settled  him- 
self against  the  cushions  of  the  carriage  that  he  was  pre- 
paring himself  for  a  long  and  serious  talk,  and  as  I  knew 
that  he  would  give  me  some  interesting  information  I 
listened  to  him  quietly,  without  attempting  to  disturb  his 
train  of  thought. 

"These  beautiful  trees,  these  avenues  and  this  aristo- 
cratic air  of  grandeur,"  he  continued,  "tell  us  in  places 
like  this  that  if  the  Monarchy  and  the  Empire  of  France 
have  passed  away  the  families  and  the  places  that  they 
inhabit  do  still  exist — to  die  perhaps  to-morrow  I — how 
can  we  tell  in  these  uncertain  days? — but  to  live  another 
hundred  years,  I  hope,  that  those  around  may  learn  to 
profit  by  the  taste  and  grandeur  of  our  French  refine- 
ment."    The  Comte  was  warming  to  his  subject. 

"Aristocracy!"  he  continued.  "Where  is  the  class  and 
what  does  the  word  mean  to-day?  Not,  alas,  what  it 
should.  And  why  do  we  find  it  in  the  sad  state  in  which 
it  is?  I  think  it  is  because,  first  from  fear,  and  then  from 
jealousy,  and  then  from  hatred — not  altogether  un- 
called for — the  bourgeoisie,  or  second  class,  have  inflamed 
and  misdirected  and  wrongly  educated  themselves.  Not 
contented  with  the  disorder  which  they  had  already 
created,  they  incited  those  beneath  them  to  contempt  for 
and  rebellion  against  those  to  whom  they  owed  often  their 
very  happiness  and  maintenance.  Alas,  revolutions, 
wars  and  radical  reforms  have  brought  changes  to  the  old 
customs,  the  old  associations,  and  the  old  noblesse,  which 
would  to-day  have  been  less  chaotic  had  they  been  left 
alone  to  rectify  themselves. 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  Y 


T .  Y 


Y.Y 


Y .  Y 


"But  to  return  to  our  surroundings,  there  are  in 
France  few  private  forests,  parks  or  chateaux,  such  as 
Valengay.  Few,  indeed,  are  those  who  are  able  to 
maintain  them,  although  their  families  may  have  pos- 
sessed them  for  centuries.  Though  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  chateaux  all  over  France  of  royal  or  historic 
interest,  one  might  almost  count  upon  the  fingers  the 
few  that  stand  out  like  the  one  which  we  are  about  to  see, 
— the  few  that  are  surrounded  by  their  ancient  estates, 
kept  up  as  they  should  be  and  inhabited  by  their  right- 
ful masters.  Few,  indeed,  are  those  which  are  consist- 
ent, those  which  have  not  been  legally  usurped  by 
a  later  aristocracy.  Of  such,  alas,  is  our  present  day  in 
a  great  part.  Of  such  is  much  of  our  social  disorder, 
which  is  only  the  result  of  ill-placed  fortune  and  of  an 
assimilation  rather  than  a  proper  ordering  of  various 
inequalities.  We  of  the  present  world  think — in  an 
obstinacy  as  vain  as  it  is  inconsistent — that  all  are  equal, 
man  and  men.  We  arrange  and  rearrange  society  to  suit 
this  theory,  with  which  we  saturate  the  world  for  the 
time  being.  We  think  to  benefit  the  humble  and  to 
humble  the  great;  but  we  fail.  Ruin  and  calamity  often 
follow,  but  seldom  the  desired  peace  and  happiness  or 
order.  When  manners  deteriorate,  and  when  prejudice 
overcomes  reason,  it  is  time  to  investigate  the  theory 
which  we  have  so  fondly  put  into  practice.  If  we  con- 
sider carefully  that  man  consists  chiefly  of  mind  and  not 
matter,  that  no  two  minds  in  human  nature  can  be  really 
equal  because  no  two  human  natures  are  ever  the  same, 
then  it  is  that  we  begin  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  all  men 
being  equal.  We  realize  at  last  that  wherever  man  is, 
inequalities  must  exist,  for  the  superior  man,  the  superior 
brain  will  always  dominate  the  inferior.  But  the  su- 
perior man  depends,  nevertheless,  upon  the  inferior  "Man 
with  the  Hoe,"  just  as  the  hireling  must  depend  upon 
him.     I  believe   that  there   must   be  relative   stages  of 


V  A  L  E  N  C  A  'i' 


T  .  V 


y .  i 


V .  V 


society,  so  lon^'  as  society  shall  exist.  There  imist  be, 
and  there  will  be,  one  to  jjovem  as  well  as  one  to  be 
governed,  one  to  serve  as  well  as  one  to  pay  for  service, 
one  to  live  in  great  houses,  to  hunt  in  forests,  to  sit  in 
judjrment,  as  well  as  one  to  wail  upon  his  master,  to  cut 
down  trees  or  to  be  judged.  For  the  separate  classes  of 
society  are  far  too  important,  far  too  necessary  one  to 
another,  for  us  to  think  of  destroying  their  various  func- 
tions. And  those  functions  are  separated  far  too  widely 
to  attempt  to  combine  the  whole,  to  attempt  to  make  the 
master  ser\'ant,  and  the  servant  master.  If  we  do  so  we 
shall  find  merely  that  neither  knows  his  business,  that 
each  one  is  in  a  position  which  he  is  neither  educated  for 
nor  capable  of  filling.  If  we  continue  to  make  laws  and 
arrangements  for  such  a  state  of  impossible  equality,  we 
shall  find  only  that  the  elements  dismember  each  other 
more  and  more.  They  will  no  more  join  together  than 
would  certain  chemicals,  and  we  obtain  only  chaos  and  dis- 
order as  a  result.  Therefore  it  is  but  natural  to  see  a 
changing  of  great  fortunes  and  places  from  their  right- 
ful owners  into  the  hands  of  those  who  are  incapable,  both 
by  birth  and  by  education,  to  use  them  for  the  benefit  of 
others,  whether  these  be  their  superiors  or  their  inferiors. 
"All  men  should  have  a  call  upon  our  time,  our  fortune, 
our  assistance.  It  is  but  lent  to  us,  with  our  own  lives,  to 
use  for  the  benefit  of  mankind ;  and  how  is  this  benefit  to 
reach  the  poor  and  the  needy  if  we  take  away  the  power 
of  doing  so  from  those  that  are  bom  and  bred  to  use  it? 
How  are  good  manners  and  refinement  and  good  taste  to 
reach  the  poor  and  vulgar  save  by  object  lessons,  such  as 
beautiful  examples  of  castles  and  forests  and  their  incum- 
bent life;  how  but  by  the  influence  of  a  well-directed 
aristocracy?  If  we  do  away  with  all  these,  if  we  de- 
stroy great  fortunes  by  excessive  taxation,  if  we  pull 
down  great  names  by  'popular  measures'  which  look  no 
further  into  the  future  than  to-day,  how  are  these  things 

3  2^ 


i .  T 


T ,  i 


T .  T 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

to  come  to  pass?  How  are  men  who  have  spent  their 
lives  accumulating  a  fortune,  who  have  used  all  their 
energy  and  talents  in  climbing  up  the  ladder  of  success; 
how,  I  ask  you,  may  these  men  be  expected  to  teach  those 
who  need  their  teaching?  How  are  these  men,  or  those 
who  surround  them,  qualified  to  exercise  the  duties  and 
the  functions  which  are  meant  to  fall  upon  others  who 
have  devoted  their  lives  to  the  study  of  the  more  advanced 
tastes?  Surely,  a  man  may  not  do  everji:hing,  nor  may 
even  those  who  go  to  make  this  class.  By  the  time  a 
self-made  man  has  gained  his  fortune,  his  chateau  may- 
be, his  forests  or  estates,  he  is  too  old,  too  tired,  to 
start  afresh  the  study  of  the  wisest  way  in  which  to 
spend  this  treasure.  The  men  for  whom  these  things 
were  made  were  never  intended  to  occupy  themselves 
with  money-making,  but  with  money-spending,  an 
important  matter  to  society.  Indeed,  I  think  that  there 
is  good  reason  to  consider  it  a  more  important  matter,  for 
money-making  concerns  but  one  man,  or  at  most  his  own 
family,  while  the  judicious  use  of  a  great  fortune  may 
affect  a  whole  community. 

"How  much  better  would  the  world  be  if  all  places, 
stich  as  Valengay,  were  in  the  hands  of  their  proper 
masters,  and  if  those  masters,  controlling  the  greatest 
fortunes,  were  worthy  of  their  names;  if  they  were  only 
true  to  their  trusts  and  to  their  great  responsibilities  to 
all  about  them ;  if  the  master  did  but  sit  in  his  proper 
place  and  honor  it;  if  the  servant  knew  the  happiness 
of  being  servant,  of  loving  his  master,  of  serving  his 
interests,  and  of  being  in  his  turn  protected  and  main- 
tained! Then  would  disorder  and  chaos  give  place  to 
harmony  and  prosperity.  Then  would  more  things  be  in 
their  proper  conditions,  and  the  world,  as  well  as  France, 
as  well  as  old  Touraine,  would  feel  gradually  those  joys 
that  are  to  be  found  only  in  contentment  and  in  universal 
order." 

224 


Si 


im 


V  A  L  K  N  C  A  '\' 


The  Comte  had  finished  speaking,  and  upon  his  con- 
cliidinp  remark  ensued  a  silence  more  ehxjuent  than  the 
long  appeal  which  he  had  made  against  the  present  state 
of  our  society  at  large. 

"I  fear  that  I  have  tired  you,"  he  said  at  last,  "with 
the  expression  of  so  many  thoughts  inspired  by  our 
surroundings.  If  so,  I  must  apologize;  but  I  fancy  that 
y  >u  may  have  shared  with  me  the  feelings  that  I  have 
referred  to,  in  connection  with  these  beautiful  avenues, 
these  i\'y-covered  paths  of  the  forest  of  Valen^ay. 
Believe  me,  they  are  not  mere  idle  thoughts,  but  con- 
clusions which  have  been  drawn  from  a  far  too  intimate 
knowledge — I  am  forced  to  own — of  the  evils,  both 
social  and  political,  of  the  present  day.  The  chateaux 
which  we  have  been  visiting  and  the  one  that  we  are 
about  to  see  are  conspicuous  examples  of  what  there  should 
be  in  France,  but  of  what  is  seldom  to  be  met  with. 

"Here  we  are,  at  the  large  rendezvous  de  chasse 
which  is  at  the  end  of  the  forest  and  the  beginning  of  the 
park.  See,  there  is  even  a  faint  view  of  the  castle  towers 
over  the  distant  trees." 

PART  II 

Not  unlike  Chenonceau,  the  chateau  of  Valengay  is 
approached  by  a  long,  straight  avenue  of  lime  trees. 
Their  overlapping  branches  cut  off  the  view  until  we 
reach  the  foot  of  a  hollow,  succeeded  in  turn  by  the 
rising  ground  upon  which  the  castle  stands.  Here  the 
climax  of  a  truly  royal  approach  is  reached,  and  the  long 
miles  of  forest  give  place  to  a  scene  as  beautiful  as  it  is 
impressive. 

The  first  object  which  presents  itself  to  view  is  the 
great  outer  court.  This  is  in  the  form  of  an  octagon, 
enclosed  by  a  wall  of  white  stones,  hidden  by  linden 
trees  and  ivy,  and  broken  upon  four  sides  by  iron  gates 

"5 


^a^^^a^a^^ 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 


with  stone  pillars.  Behind  it,  and  upon  the  right,  a  small 
gate  leads  into  the  garden,  a  worthy  introduction  to  so 
noble  a  chateau.  Old  walls  are  hung  with  grape  vines, 
or  covered  b)'  creeping  pears  and  apples,  faintly  visible 
behind  the  iron  gate.  Plums  and  peaches  grow  enticingly 
above  the  head.  Rose-colored  dahlias,  asters  of  every 
shade  and  tint,  and  other  flowers  grow  in  profusion 
behind  the  lines  of  boxes  upon  either  side  of  the  alleys. 
And  for  the  rest  you  must  allow  the  imagination  to 
picture  what  may  not  be  seen  at  a  passing  glance.  Dreams 
and  fairj'-like  ideals  may  hold  their  fullest  sway;  they 
will  not  often  be  disappointed  in  the  garden  of  a  French 
chateau.  In  it  the  most  unsightly  things  assume  some 
picturesque  charm,  a  simple  and  artistic  beauty  that  must 
needs  satisfy  the  most  fastidious. 

Upon  the  left  a  gateway  with  a  high  stone  arch  leads  to 
the  Bourg  which  grows  up  to  the  very  walls.  Close 
beside  it  another  arch  leads  to  a  series  of  smaller  courts 
which  form  the  stables.  Upon  the  right  a  grille,  flanked 
by  two  massive  pillars,  opens  into  an  avenue  that 
stretches  through  the  park  in  a  long,  straight  line.  It 
looks  at  least  a  mile  in  length,  ending  in  one  of  those 
vistas  with  which  the  feudal  French  so  loved  to  fill  their 
parks  and  forests.  In  front  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
whole  the  great  donjon  of  Valen^ay  rises  out  of  a  moat. 
Its  pointed  roof,  beetling  with  round  minarets,  with  orna- 
mented windows  and  with  carved  chimneys,  is  still  some 
distance  from  us.  An  iron  grating,  supported  by  nearly 
a  dozen  carved  stone  pillars,  culminating  in  the  central 
gate,  guards  the  entrance  to  a  great  terrace  in  front  of 
the  castle.  A  long  narrow  Louis  XV  building  of  admir- 
able lines  but  of  unfinished  appearance  occupies  a  posi- 
tion on  the  right.  It  is  the  orangery',  while  a  coun- 
terpart to  it  upon  our  left  is  now  used  as  a  carriage 
house.  Beyond  this  building,  which  might  have  been 
beautiful  had  its  single  story  been  more  richly  orna- 
226 


V  A  L  K  N  C  A  Y 

mentcd,  are  situated  the  kennels.  Here  the  visitor  is 
enabled  to  appreciate  the  value  of  an  iron  screen  by  the 
savage  barks  and  growls  of  a  pack  of  hounds  looking  as 
if  they  would  gladly  make  a  meal  of  any  one  who  chanced 
to  fall  among  them.  A  grass-grown  terrace  of  several 
acres  divides  us  from  the  castle,  which  rises  like  a  great 
giant  out  of  the  shrubbery  and  vines  adorning  the  empty 
moats. 

The  first  view  of  the  castle  is  indeed  imposing.  Its 
noble  proportions,  its  massive  towers,  its  white  stone 
walls,  rising  like  a  cloud  before  one,  would  alone  be 
enough  to  draw  forth  one's  admiration;  but  the  beauty 
and  grandeur  of  the  approach,  the  gates,  the  courts,  the 
terraces,  all  add  to  the  effect,  and  they  assist  in  making 
the  whole  scene  one  of  the  grandest  in  France. 

Valen(;ay  is  built  around  two  sides  of  a  hollow  square, 
the  open  spaces  behind  being  formed  into  terraces  and 
parterres,  such  as  only  the  French  know  how  to  beautify. 
The  court  or  terrace  within  looks  out  over  a  fair)--like 
panorama,  the  grandeur,  the  dignity,  the  beautj-  of  which 
may  be  conveyed  only  to  those  who  have  seen  it.  The 
walls  of  both  wings  are  alike  in  the  architecture  of  the 
Renaissance,  and  they  show  to  advantage  the  talents  of 
Philibert  Delorme.  Two  round  towers  upon  the  right 
rise  at  each  extremity  of  the  building,  but  they  are  so 
different  from  the  central  one  that  the  eflFect  of  the  whole 
lacks  somewhat  in  unity.  The  motif  of  ornamentation  is 
simple  but  yet  effective.  It  might  indeed  be  called  a 
lattice-work  of  Ionic  pilasters,  starting  at  the  founda- 
tions, and  covering  the  walls  with  innumerable  squares 
up  to  the  cornices  of  the  roof  The  towers,  as  well, 
share  in  this  form  of  decoration,  and  into  many  of  the 
squares  thus  made  the  windows  of  the  chateau  have 
been  inserted.  The  pilasters,  acting  as  both  their 
support  and  decoration,  are  capped  by  the  double  lines 
of    stone    cornice    which    divide    the   different    stories. 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TO  U  RAIN  E 


Y ,  i 


T .  V 


r.T 


These  also  serve  as  a  cornice  to  the  main  portions  of  the 
front  and  sides,  that  of  the  towers  being  much  heavier 
and  more  elaborate.  Here,  as  we  study  closely  their 
details,  we  observe  the  architecture  of  the  towers  to  be 
the  same.  With  the  exception  of  a  small  tower  upon 
the  extreme  left,  their  walls  are  alike ;  and  the  massive 
cornices  surmounted  by  the  heavy  battlements  are  iden- 
tical in  all.  From  what,  then,  have  the  two  round  towers 
assumed  so  different  an  effect?  As  we  study  them  more 
closely  we  perceive  that  the  secret  lies  in  their  roofs,  a 
fact  which  we  had  at  first  overlooked.  The  two  upon 
the  right  are  crowned  by  bell-shaped  roofs  of  slate,  and  at 
the  climax,  where  the  handle  of  the  bell  would  be,  there 
is  an  open  cupola,  reminding  one  of  the  chateau  of  Cham- 
bord.  The  contour  of  the  whole  is  not  unlike  those 
Dresden  China  bells  which  we  see  to-day.  One  large 
chimney,  standing  against  the  cupola,  alone  breaks  the 
symmetry  of  these  roofs.  It  is  decorated  with  pilasters 
and  other  ornaments  of  the  Renaissance;  but  it  docs 
not  possess  the  beauty  of  the  highly  ornamented  chim- 
neys which  rise  from  the  central  tower.  Here  again  the 
attention  is  drawn  toward  the  roof  of  the  donjon  and  to 
its  difference  in  character  from  the  others.  Although 
the  whole  mass  is  square  in  contour,  instead  of  being 
round,  the  walls  and  decorations  of  all  the  towers  at 
Valengay  are  the  same,  and  therefore  the  chief  study  is 
that  of  the  roof.  The  light  minarets  of  the  hanging 
towers  at  the  four  corners  break  the  angular  lines  of  the 
slate  roof,  while  three  ornamented  windows  make  this 
look  still  more  like  the  pavilion  of  Chenonceau.  In 
studying  these  three  towers  two  things  are  noticeable: 
first,  their  striking  contrast,  which  calls  to  mind  the  two 
styles  of  Chenonceau  and  of  Chambord,  and  second, 
how  much  beauty  may  be  derived  from  a  simple  chimney. 
For  in  these  three  chateaux  the  architect  has  made  an 
object  of  ornamentation  and  of  beauty  out  of  a  necessity 


\'  A  L  L  N  C  A  ^' 


T .  T 


Y .  T 


which  is  too  frequently  considered  unworthy  of  archi- 
tectural treatment.  Indeed,  a  study  of  French  architec- 
ture— we  mean  among  these  chateaux — opens  the  eyes 
to  the  possibilities  of  beautifying  chimneys,  if  nothing 
else.  Those  of  the  chateau  of  Blois,  as  well  as  the  ones 
already  mentioned,  are  well  worthy  of  study  and  should 
be  an  example  to  modem  architects. 

But  to  turn  suddenly  from  one  subject  to  another,  and 
to  descend  from  the  roofs  to  the  moats,  let  us  leave 
these  spires  and  chimneys,  to  plunge  into  those  media-val 
appendages  to  the  French  chateau  which  have  remained 
to  add  their  attraction  to  so  many  of  the  historical  monu- 
ments of  France.  The  moats  of  Valencjay  are  very  large, 
and  they  surround  the  two  sides  of  the  chateau,  their  empty 
beds  being  converted  to-day  into  shnibberies  which  add 
not  a  little  to  the  pleasing  effect.  A  heavy  coating  of 
ivy  clings  to  the  old  foxmdations,  and  is  relieved  by 
small  trees  and  larger  bushes.  The  yellow-green  of 
the  laurel  joins  with  the  deeper  colors  of  "fusins" 
grouped  in  the  comers,  while  graveled  walks  wind  in  and 
out  over  velvety  grass.  Any  sad  or  dreary  ideas  of  the 
castle  moat  are  overturned  completely  by  the  effect  of 
these  at  Valen^ay.  Here  is  a  mass  of  mahonias,  to 
blossom  in  the  spring  when  all  else  in  nattire  is  asleep,  as  if 
to  warm  the  atmosphere  with  golden  flowers.  They 
have  faded  away  long  since,  and  now  only  the  deep 
purple  berries  remain  behind,  to  relieve  the  green  leaves 
that  remind  one  of  holly.  But  by  tliis  time  we  are 
standing  upon  the  stone  bridge,  with  its  three  great 
arches  over  the  moat.  Before  us  is  the  archway  through 
the  donjon  tower  surmounted  by  the  family  arms  carved 
in  the  stone.  The  three  lions  of  Talleyrand,  crowned 
by  a  ducal  coronet,  look  down  upon  us  from  their  place 
of  honor,  as  we  ring  the  great  bell  of  the  castle  and 
pass  on  to  the  inner  court. 
The  scene  here  is  indeed    fairj'-like,   and  one  which 


i .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

holds  the  spectator  in  an  almost  fascinated  trance,  making 
him  think  that  at  last  the  dreams  of  childhood  have 
become  true.  The  visions  of  enchanted  castles,  the  pic- 
tures which  fairy  tales  and  nursery  stories  have  brought 
to  mind,  the  ideals  of  an  imaginative  disposition,  are 
all  fully  realized.  A  square  terrace,  some  hundred  feet 
in  length  and  covered  with  grass,  is  the  first  object  to 
attract  our  notice.  Behind  us  and  upon  the  right  the 
beautifully  ornamented  walls  of  Valenc^ay  rise  two  and 
three  stories,  with  the  black  domes  of  their  towers  above 
them.  An  arcade  runs  the  length  of  the  right-hand  por- 
tion of  the  court,  ending  at  last  in  one  of  the  entrances 
to  the  chateau.  Busts  of  white  marble  upon  black 
pedestals  stand  against  the  walls  of  this  arcade;  and 
though  they  are  too  small  they  lend  dignity  to  the 
general  effect.  A  basin  of  darkened  stone  occupies  the 
centre  of  the  court,  and  a  fountain  rising  from  it  sends 
silvery  sprays  over  the  otherwise  unruffled  surface  of  the 
water.  Trees  and  bushes  upon  the  left  hide  the  view, 
and  beyond  tis  a  carved  stone  railing  is  broken  by  a  flight 
of  steps  leading  to  the  parterres  already  mentioned. 
Beyond  all  this  stretches  ideal  scenery,  forests  and  rows 
of  poplar  trees,  a  portion  of  the  park,  the  tower  of  a 
distant  church,  all  in  blue-green  haze,  mystifying  the 
poetry  of  it  all  and  delighting  the  joyous  eye. 

Inside  the  chateau  the  rooms  are  arranged  like  those  of 
a  palace,  opening  one  into  the  other  through  small  doors, 
so  that  if  one  should  stand  in  the  first  room  he  would  look 
through  the  entire  suite  of  apartments  to  the  further  end. 
Salons  and  antechambers,  the  dining-room,  the  hall,  the 
royal  bed-chamber — all  succeed  one  another  in  a  most 
effective  manner.  The  salons  are  furnished  principally 
in  the  periods  of  Louis  XVI  and  of  the  Empire.  Beauti- 
ful things  and  beautiful  furniture  abound  on  every  side. 
In  one  room  a  magnificent  clock  of  the  time  of  Louis 
XVI  strikes  the  eye  and  calls  forth  a  word  of  admiration. 


^a^^^a 


VALKNCAY 

In  another  room  an  Empire  chandelier  tells  of  the  taste 
and  art  in  the  smaller  ornaments  of  that  period.  In  the 
state  bed-room  (occupied  by  the  Spanish  princes  durinj; 
their  confinement  at  Valen(,-ay)  there  is  an  Empire  desk 
which  is  a  wonderfully  complete  and  perfect  example  of 
its  period.  This  room  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
in  the  chateau,  apart  from  its  historic  interest.  The 
pictures  are  very  fine,  many  of  them  by  famous  mas- 
ters. A  curious  fact  to  be  observed,  by  the  way,  in  the 
pictures  at  Valen(,'ay  is  the  varied  collection  of  royal 
portraits  which  show — perhaps  too  plainly — the  appre- 
ciated devotion  of  the  great  diplomat  to  those  sovereigns 
who  were  in  power  during  his  public  life.  Conspicu- 
ous among  them  is  the  portrait  of  Napoleon,  painted 
in  his  imperial  robes. 

On  the  left  of  an  elaborately  decorated  bed  is  a  large 
case  containing  the  various  state  and  diplomatic  uniforms 
of  "le  Grand  Talleyrand";  but  perhaps  by  accident,  or 
possibly  for  other  reasons,  the  violet  robes  of  the 
Evcque  d'Autun  have  been  omitted  from  the  collec- 
tion. There  they  hang,  these  relics  of  former  power 
and  of  glorious  achievements — achievements  which  were 
sometimes  greater  than  they  were  glorious,  and  more 
remarkable  than  great.  Beneath  them  are  the  shape- 
less shoes  which  the  famous  diplomat  and  statesman 
wore  during  his  lifetime,  a  strange  round  mass  of 
leather,  with  a  sole  many  inches  thick.  Such  objects 
as  these  and  the  knowledge  of  how  much  they  represent 
bring  vividly  to  mind  the  character  and  historj-  of  him 
who  brought  this  chateau  into  the  family  of  Talleyrand. 
The  same  air  of  grandeur,  of  dignity,  of  an  old  ri;gime, 
pervades  the  apartments,  which  is  wafted  through  the 
trees  of  the  forest  leading  to  them. 

We  mount  the  broad  staircase  of  the  central  hall,  turn- 
ing at  every  step  to  admire  or  to  study  the  pictures  which 
line    the     walls.      For    many    of  them  are    interesting, 
231 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

especially  some  larger  ones  of  Philippe  de  Champagne, 
representing  famous  incidents  or  scenes.  Portraits  and 
pictures  of  a  varied  character  are  hung  indiscriminately, 
making  the  rather  gloomy  walls  alive  with  charac- 
ters. But  in  spite  of  this  art  the  staircase  is  not  a  beau- 
tiful one,  and  it  is  somewhat  eclipsed  in  beauty  by  the 
galleries  above.  Of  these  the  largest  and  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  is  the  long  gallery  overlooking  the 
court.  Every  corner  of  it,  from  the  bookcases  to  the 
walls,  is  occupied  by  some  object  of  interest,  either 
historical  or  artistic.  In  fact,  this  remarkable  collection 
of  old  pictures,  of  prints  and  sketches,  of  rare  bits  of 
china  and  glass,  of  statues  in  bronze  or  in  marble,  with 
many  other  things  too  numerous  to  mention,  forms  of 
this  gallery  a  veritable  museum.  Although  this  is  only 
one  of  the  many  collections  made  by  the  Prince  de 
Ben(Svent,  days  and  weeks  even  might  be  exhausted 
in  the  study  of  its  details;  at  the  end  of  this  time  there 
would  yet  remain  a  thousand  objects  still  unnoticed,  still 
unstudied.  Perhaps  the  most  valuable  things  belonging 
to  this  remarkable  collection  are  the  Raphael  sketches. 
These  hang  against  the  dull  and  ugly  walls  of  the  gal- 
lery, looking  almost  as  fresh  as  when  the  youthful  genius 
of  Italy  first  traced  their  outlines.  Their  wonderful  finesse 
of  detail,  as  well  as  their  artistic  coloring,  are  as  if  the 
famous  master  had  just  sent  them  forth  to  claim  the  ap- 
plause of  an  admiring  world.  As  one  looks  in  admira- 
tion, almost  in  reverence,  at  these  examples  of  an  in- 
imitable art,  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  the  sketches  lack 
but  a  few  years  of  their  four  hundredth  birthday. 

The  gallery  itself,  apart  from  its  wealth  of  treasures,  is 
a  very  ugly  one.  Its  walls,  like  many  of  those  at 
Valen^ay,  are  of  that  hideous  dull  brown  which  is  so 
characteristic  of  the  somewhat  uneducated  period  of 
the  First  Empire.  For  Napoleon,  whatever  his  mili- 
tary genius,  his  personality,   his   statesmanship,  or   his 


V  A  I,  K.N  (.AY 

greatness  may  have  been,  could  liardly  have  been  ex- 
pected to  bring  to  the  imperial  court  that  refinement  of 
taste  or  culture  which  characterized  the  periods  of  hered- 
itary kings  rather  than  those  of  self-created  emperors. 
We  refer,  however,  more  to  the  style  of  building  and  of 
decoration  during  the  period  of  the  First  Empire  than  to 
the  furniture,  which  many  people  consider  as  a  type  of 
the  beautiful.  The  Comte  is  not  among  this  latter  class, 
as  we  shall  see. 

"Look  at  these  dusty,  old  gold,  brown  or  gray  coloied 
walls,"  said  he,  with  evident  displeasure  at  his  surround- 
ings. "It  depresses  me  even  to  move  between  them. 
These  polished  tiles,  painted  brown  also,  do  but  increase 
the  general  effect.  Were  it  not  for  the  beautiful  col- 
lections within  this  gallery,  I  think  that  I  should  have 
been  upon  the  other  side  of  the  door  ere  this  in  search  of 
pleasanter  surroundings.  Here  there  is  not  an  atom  of 
color  to  relieve  this  dull  monotony  of  browns.  The  floor 
is  brown,  the  walls  are  brown,  the  ceiling  is  brown.  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  about  to  turn  into  brown  myself,  so 
impossible  is  it  to  escape  from  the  incessant  color." 

"You  need  not  complain  of  the  polished  tiles,"  said  I, 
by  way  of  defending  them,  though  they  ill  deserved  it, 
"for  you  were  glad  enough  to  admire  them  atChaumont, 
even  though  I  had  the  pleasure  of  falling  twice  and 
nearly  spraining  my  ankle." 

"Ah,"  replied  the  Comte,  "but  there  we  had  those 
beautiful  tapestries  of  the  Salle  des  Gardes,  and  the  fif- 
teenth century  tapestries  in  the  chamber  of  Catherine  de 
Medici.  Those  matchless  works  of  art,  rich  in  all  the 
colors  of  their  time,  needed  just  these  tiles  to  relieve 
them.  The  car^'ing  of  the  woodwork,  the  ancient  air  of 
everything,  the  chamber  of  Ruggieri,  all  were  in  per- 
fect harmony.  But  here,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the 
gallery  in  which  we  still  remained,  "here  I  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  them,"  and  shrugging  his  shoulders, 

'33 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN    TOURAINE 


Y .  T 


T .  T 


T .  i 


i  .  T 


he  walked  off  in  disdain,  while  I  accompanied  him  to 
hear  what  more  he  had  to  say  upon  the  subject. 

"The  whole  period  of  the  First  Empire,  its  taste  and  its 
effect,  I  consider — and  I  think  I  represent  the  mass  of 
conservative  French  people  of  to-day — they  consider  it,  I 
repeat,  as  bourgeois.  You  may  say  what  you  like," 
pursued  the  Comte,  "you  may  admire  and  criticise,  and 
admire  again.  You  may  say  that  Napoleon  was  such  a 
genius,  such  a  power,  so  great  an  individuality  in  himself, 
that  it  is  unbecoming  even  to  associate  his  name  with 
such  paltry  things  as  chairs  or  tables.  You  may  say  all 
this,  and  I  will  agree  with  you.  But  it  will  not  alter  my 
opinion,  or  that  of  the  class  which  I  represent :  that  the 
Empire  period  is  bourgeois,  and  that  its  taste,  as 
well  as  its  standing,  is  far  below  that  of  Louis  XIV, 
Louis  XV  or  Louis  XVI." 

' '  I  agree  with  you  in  your  preference  for  what  one  might 
call  'the  golden  ages  of  the  Louis,'  "  I  replied;  "but  I 
am  surprised  to  hear  you  criticise  so  severely  the  Empire 
furniture." 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  like  its  ponderous  ele- 
gance," said  my  friend,  in  return.  "I  have  always 
found  it  hard  and  angular  and  inferior  to  that  of  Louis 
XVI." 

"There  is  but  one  thing  to  be  said,  then,"  I  rejoined, 
as  a  final  deduction  from  the  foregoing  argument,  "and 
that  is,  that  you  lose  just  one-fourth  of  the  pleasure  which 
I  derive  from  looking  at  French  furniture.  For  I  enjoy, 
each  in  its  own  particular  manner,  the  four  styles  of 
Louis  XIV,  Louis  XV,  Louis  XVI,  and  the  Empire, 
while  you  enjoy  but  the  first  three." 

"Perhaps  that  is  true,"  said  the  Comte,  smiling,  and 
if  you  should  weigh  out  the  gross  weight  of  our  respective 
enjoyment  of  styles,  the  scales  would  doubtless  turn  in 
your  favor.  But  seriously,  I  endeavor  to  find  in  each 
style  that  which  is  good,  or  at  least  that  which  is  best. 
234 


VALKNCAY 


Y .  i 


T .  V 


T .  Y 


Y .  Y 


For  instance,  I  may  say  that  the  Louis  XIV  furniture,  with 
its  great  patterns  and  lines,  was  appropriate  to  tlie  larger 
rooms  and  larger  conceptions  of  'Ic  Grand  M<inarch. ' 
The  more  temperate  Louis  XV  period,  which  does  not 
indulge  in  so  much  of  the  'rocaille, '  is  appropriate  for  a 
drawing-room  with  panelling.  If  I  take  the  Louis  XVI 
period  it  is  the  most  graceful,  and  when  it  is  well  finished 
(which  is  seldom  to  be  found),  it  is  in  keeping  with  the 
period  of  Marie  Antoinette.  It  is  wonderful  to  see 
how  much  the  character  and  the  influence  of  that  ill-fated 
queen  is  delineated  in  the  furniture  and  in  the  ornaments 
of  her  day.  In  fact,  I  believe  that  each  style,  each 
period  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  is  in  a  sense  the 
image  of  its  respective  reign.  This  is  why  the  Empire 
furniture,  some  parts  of  which  are  beautiful,  if  taken  bit 
by  bit  portrays  in  its  straight,  uncompromising  lines  the 
stiff,  unfinished  manners  of  a  court  which  certainly  lacked 
that  refinement  that  is  the  result  of  long  generations  of 
training." 

As  there  was  little  that  could  be  said  in  answer  to  this 
statement  we  left  the  gallery  in  silence,  and  entered  a 
second  one,  leading  to  a  library  in  the  great  tower. 
This  gallerj'  is  much  smaller  than  the  preceding  one;  but 
is  still  rich  in  collections  of  busts,  of  smaller  statuarj', 
of  medals,  of  a  hundred  objects  gathered  together  by  him 
who  placed  them  there.  Gifts  of  all  kinds,  frequently 
by  royal  favor,  are  interspersed,  telling  more  truly  than 
aught  else  the  varied  career  of  Talleyrand.  In  fact,  the 
collections  at  Valenijay  are  by  far  the  most  interesting 
portion  of  the  interior,  which  is  otherwise  inconsistent 
and  inferior  to  everj-thing  outside.  The  internal 
arrangement  as  a  whole,  the  rooms,  the  entrances  and 
the  halls,  do  not  seem  to  possess  their  natural  relative 
positions.  The  styles  are  intermingled,  though  for  the 
most  part  of  the  Empire  period,  and  the  visitor  is  forced 
to  acknowledge  that  the  chief  attraction  lies  in  the  beau- 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


tiful  things  which  abound  on  all  sides.  As  we  have 
already  seen,  it  is  impossible  to  do  justice  to  these, 
or  to  describe  them  in  detail.  We  can  but  touch, 
in  passing,  upon  those  collections,  or  special  objects 
which  offer  themselves  for  our  consideration.  Many 
royal  presents  are  distinguishable  from  the  various 
sovereigns  to  which  the  Prince  de  Ben6vent  was  sent  as 
ambassador,  from  noted  men  of  church  and  state,  while 
he  held  the  office  of  Evcque  d'Autun,  and  from  all  the 
representatives  of  the  time  in  which  this  wonderful  life 
played  so  important  a  role.  On  all  sides  there  are 
emblems  of  past  accomplishment.  On  all  sides  are  the 
evidences  of  relationships  which,  whether  of  a  public  or 
private  character,  affected  often  whole  nations. 

In  a  small  private  closet  leading  from  the  library  the 
most  prized  of  all  the  collections  are  enshrined.  The 
walls  are  hung  with  hundreds  of  tiny  prints  in  gilded 
frames,  each  representing  a  famous  person,  each  bearing 
its  history  attached,  each  hanging  there  through  some 
significance.  Several  framed  bas-reliefs  of  white  marble 
are  interspersed  among  the  prints.  The  delicacy  of  their 
detail,  the  finesse  of  their  workmanship,  we  have  rarely 
seen  equaled. 

Collections  of  medals  fill  the  cases  which  line  this 
remarkable  little  room.  Minerals  of  a  rare  character, 
with  valuable  specimens  of  different  ores,  are  also  to  be 
found  in  numbers.  A  royal  baton,  of  gold  and  ivorj-, 
hangs  on  the  left,  while  other  objects,  too  rare  or  too  pre- 
cious to  be  placed  elsewhere,  are  enshrined  in  this  cham- 
ber. But  the  climax  of  the  whole  is  yet  to  come.  In  an 
inner  closet,  situated  in  one  of  the  round  corner-towers  of 
the  fagade,  is  placed  a  wonderful  collection  of  snuff  boxes, 
known  the  world  over.  These  snuff  boxes  were  collected 
by  Talleyrand  in  the  most  interesting  and  original  man- 
ner. Whenever  he  was  sent  upon  a  mission  to  a  foreign 
sovereign,  he  asked,  in  return  for  his  services,  the  royal 

2^6 


\'  A  L  E  N  C  A  Y 

portrait  as  a  souvenir.  And  as  snuff  was  used  constantly 
at  that  periotl,  the  royal  picture  invariably  appeared  upon 
the  cover  of  a  golden  snuff  box.  The  famuus  diplomat 
ended  by  having  the  most  perfect  collection  of  contem- 
pMjrarj'  royal  miniatures  in  the  world.  They  are  certainly 
works  of  art,  and  they  tell,  perhaps  better  than  any  of 
the  other  collections,  of  the  greatness  and  the  extended 
power  of  the  man  to  whom  they  had  been  given. 

With  these  the  visit  is  concluded,  and  the  guest  is  con- 
ducted to  the  court  once  more,  there  to  think  over  all 
that  is  within  the  chateau,  and  to  enjoy  another  hour 
among  the  fairy-like  alleys  of  the  park. 

PART    III 

The  principal  facade  of  Valenqay  is  placed  so  that  it 
overlooks  a  high  plateau  as  well  as  the  valley,  which  is 
perhaps  the  prettiest  portion  of  a  park  well  calculated  to 
enclose  so  great  a  castle.  From  the  central  door  a  bridge 
of  solid  stone,  divided  by  a  narrow  draw,  joins  the  castle 
with  the  terrace.  A  few  steps  lead  to  a  broad  alley  run- 
ning in  a  straight  line  between  the  lawns.  The  alley  is 
flanked  on  either  side  by  giant  orange-trees  in  stiff  green 
tubs,  and  it  disappears  at  last  in  a  misty  group  of  foliage. 
On  the  right  a  long  row  of  elms  projects  giant  arms  over 
the  grass  for  more  than  a  mile.  The  shadows  of  their 
twisted  trunks  are  thrown  upon  the  ground  in  long,  dark 
reflections. 

Let  us  plunge  into  this  leafy  tunnel  upon  the  left,  with 
moving  walls  and  with  high  vaults  of  waving  branches. 
Let  us  linger  upon  this  avenue,  for  it  is  "I'allde  des 
Princes."  It  runs  between  rows  of  beautifully  porpor- 
tioned  trees,  which  grow  in  such  a  manner  that  they  sug- 
gest a  great  curtain,  lowered  that  it  may  hide  the  view. 
These  noble  effigies  of  time  live  yet  to  tell  us  in  a 
whispering   voice   of  memorable   days   in    the   years  of 

»37 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T ,  V 


r ,  T 


V .  V 


180S-1S14,  1S40-1S45.  These  trees  stood  then,  the  silent 
guardians  of  kings.  Ferdinand  VII  and  Don  Carlos  of 
Spain  have  often  walked  beneath  their  shade,  perhaps 
forgetting  in  this  solemn  company  the  sadness  of  their 
exile,  the  lonelj"-  hours  of  their  wasted  years.  Talleyrand 
the  Great,  who  had  received  Valengay  as  a  gift  from  Napo- 
leon, in  1806,  must  have  walked  beneath  these  moving 
vaults,  pacing  the  avenue  with  Ferdinand,  as  he  endeav- 
ored to  search  the  thoughts  and  the  designs  of  the 
royal  prisoner  held  thus  within  this  gilded  prison.  The 
trees  are  silent  now;  their  royal  guests  have  gone 
where  prisons  are  vinknown,  where  exile  vanishes.  And 
we  remain  alone  beneath  the  trees.  Nothing  disturbs 
our  reveries  as  we  ponder  upon  the  past.  A  feeling  of 
grandeur,  of  royal  dignity  indeed,  seems  to  be  given  forth 
from  the  surroundings;  it  is  inherent  in  the  place  at 
every  turn.  Instinctively  we  stand  erect,  that  we  like- 
wise may  be  in  keeping  with  it  all.  We  pass  through 
the  avenue  as  though  we  too  would  be  a  king.  The  mem- 
ory of  the  great  men  of  the  world  who  have  inhabited 
the  castle  brings  with  it  the  magic  of  their  names  and 
of  their  history.  They  have  handed  down  this  magic  to 
descendants,  as  it  would  be  the  secret  of  glory  to  come. 
And  Valen^ay  possesses  that  air  of  conscious  and  in- 
herent pride  pertaining  to  a  glorious  name  as  to  an  an- 
cient house. 

Talleyrand  had  been  in  1806  the  hero  of  the  "Con- 
federation du  Rhin,"  and  he  was  rewarded  by  the  title  of 
"Prince  de  Ben^vent  et  de  Valengay. "  Two  years  later 
he  was  created  "Prince  Grand  Electeur,"  with  an  income 
of  five  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  and  the  guardian- 
ship of  the  Princes  of  Spain. 

The  castle,  as  well  as  the  park  which  bears  so  many 
surprises  in  its  folds,  is  indeed  a  strange  reproduction 
the  career  of  Talleyrand  at  the  time  when  it  was  given 
liim.     He  held  then  the  place  of  an  accomplished  rep- 

238 


\'  A  L  E  N  C  A  ^' 


V  .  T 


r .  T 


V .  V 


rescni.itive  of  the  old  rfSyirae  before  a  ncwly-manncrcd 
court.  He  broujjht  to  it  the  refinement  and  the  captivat- 
ing charm  so  characteristic  of  his  whole  life,  and  thus  he 
became  by  his  diplomacy  the  necessary  link  between  the 
remaining  sovereigns  of  Europe  and  the  new-made 
Emperor. 

We  have  crossed  the  great  lawn.  The  lines  of  the 
m  issive  building  lose  their  harshness  in  the  distance,  and 
the  towers  upon  either  side  are  veiled  by  the  brandies  of 
trees.  We  are  standing  upon  the  edge  of  a  tableland 
which  overlooks  the  panorama.  Before  this  only  a 
glimpse  of  it  could  be  caught  from  the  courtyard  of  the 
chateau.  The  trunks  and  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees 
now  lose  themselves  at  our  feet  in  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
while  the  higher  boughs  cluster  around  us,  and  rise  above 
the  head.  We  endeavor  to  find  an  open  space  between 
them,  that  we  may  take  in  a  landscape  whose  misty 
outline  has  been  until  now  more  than  half  hidden  behind 
the  green  curtain.  Our  hopes  are  more  than  real- 
ized, and  the  scenery  unfolds  itself  more  beautifully 
on  account  of  the  lacework  of  leaves  which  frames  it. 
There  is  first  a  bed  of  foliage,  so  thick  that  it  hides  the 
sloping  ground  completely.  Its  graceful  undulations,  its 
shadows,  here  light  and  transparent,  there  dark  and 
impenetrable,  alone  betray  the  mounds  or  hollows.  The 
hill  on  which  we  stand  stretches  toward  the  right,  like  a 
long  arm,  bent  gracefully  in  an  endeavor  to  meet  the  one 
which  rises  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  vale.  This  also 
seems  to  join  it  in  the  same  effort ;  but  both  these  arms 
are  too  short  and  out  of  reach. 

A  small  bridge  stands  in  relief  against  the  green  and 
makes  a  hyphen  between  the  two  hills.  In  the  meadow 
below  the  river  Nahon  winds  through  the  long  grass  like 
a  thread  of  shining  silver.  Its  clear  waters,  shaded  by 
the  lilies  which  look  like  stars  of  white,  run  amidst  bend- 
ing reeds  and  purpled  flowers.     At  times  they  are  hid- 

»39 


i .  i 


T .  4 


r .  4 


Y .  V 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 


den  by  a  clump  of  trees,  but  only  to  reappear  and 
wander  through  the  meadow.  Suddenly,  however,  as  if 
they  wished  to  escape  from  the  encircling  hills,  they 
make  a  bold  rush  toward  the  bridge  and  lose  themselves 
beneath  a  single  arch.  A  group  of  deer  frisks  about 
upon  the  narrow  tongue  of  grass  surrounded  on  three 
sides  by  the  brook.  A  doe  stands  upon  the  edge  of 
the  stream,  and  the  water  reflects  her  graceful  form. 
Further  on,  an  unexpected  sound  has  startled  her  com- 
panions, and  from  all  sides  the  frightened  animals  as- 
semble round  the  oldest  buck.  All  follow  him,  their 
anxious  eyes  wide  open,  their  ears  on  high,  and  they  dis- 
appear behind  the  trees  and  woods  upon  the  opposite 
slope. 

Involuntarily  I  cry:  "Make  haste,  my  friend;  let  us 
pursue  them  in  their  erratic  flight ;  come  here  that  we 
may  run  down  these  many  windings  toward  the  meadow, 
toward  the  brook,  there  to  sit  amid  the  shade  of  trees, 
deep  within  the  vale!"  We  start,  and  as  we  follow  a 
sandy  path  we  meet  another,  winding  towards  the  place 
that  we  have  wished  to  gain.  But  a  strong  hand  draws  us 
forward,  toward  the  unknown,  toward  those  bowers  and 
avenues  which  hold  for  us  so  many  unlooked-for  enchant- 
ments. Here  the  branches  meet  above  the  head  and 
make  a  vault  so  perfect  that  it  must  have  been  chiseled 
by  an  artist's  hand.  An  old  gardener  is  bent  almost  in 
twain,  picking  up  the  dead  wood,  while  others  are  clip- 
ping the  branches  that  grow  beyond  the  borders  of  the 
walk.  The  trees  come  to  an  end,  and  the  scene  changes 
into  a  glade,  spread  over  with  a  carpet  of  verdant  green, 
sprinkled  with  gold  and  white.  Here  we  may  obtain 
a  glimpse,  though  only  a  glimpse,  of  the  landscape  be- 
yond, for  another  avenue,  with  grass  beneath  the 
foot,  runs  in  curves  through  hedges  of  meadow-sweet 
and  laurels.  It  twists  itself  into  large  bows,  the  loops  of 
which  stretch  far  toward  the  right  and  left.     Finally  it 


M 


V  A  L  K  N  C  A  y 


leads  into  what  seems  to  be  a  great  natural  cathedral 
formed  of  trees.  The  nave  is  bordered  by  gipantic  firs, 
whose  branches  have  been  cut  off  many  feet  above  the 
ground.  They  stand  like  so  many  tall  and  slender 
columns,  and  from  their  capitals  spring  up  innumerable 
groins  formed  of  branches.  They  cross  and  recross, 
branching  in  every  direction,  only  to  end  at  last  in  the 
keystone  of  the  top.  This  is  like  lacework,  and  brilliant 
with  diamonds  left  by  the  rain,  which  await  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun,  that  they  may  sparkle  once  more,  and 
then  fade  into  air.  The  chancel  is  made  by  nine  columns 
growing  in  a  circle.  They  have  been  hung  by  Time 
with  draperies  of  a  velvet-gray,  and  they  support  the  leafy 
dome.  A  large  stone  bench  or  table  at  the  further 
end  looks  as  if  it  were  an  altar.  Behind  it  there  runs 
an  apse  of  misty  foliage,  and  from  this  many  doors 
lead  into  silent  paths  or  into  natural  chapels  made  for 
thoughts  or  for  divine  love. 

How  often  must  Talle>Tand  have  paced  this  nave, 
slowly  extending  toward  the  chancel  and  the  large  stone 
altar!  How  often  must  he  have  listened  to  the  great 
organ,  as  now  the  storm  rages  through  its  pipes,  or  as  a 
"voix  celeste"  comes  out  like  a  whisper  to  lull  the  pas- 
sions like  some  angel's  voice!  These  high  vaults,  these 
slender  columns,  might  perhaps  tell  us  if  Talleyrand  had 
borne  his  head  erect  as  he  faced  the  altar,  or  if  he  had 
bowed  beneath  an  unseen  weight  as  his  eyes  wandered 
about  him.  The  sight  of  these  naves  and  vaults  might, 
by  some  chance,  have  carried  his  thoughts  back  to  another 
cathedral,  "le  Cath<5dral  d'Autun."  The  organ  was 
playing  there  upon  a  certain  day  in  1788,  when,  in  his 
pontifical  robes,  the  new  bishop  entered  the  church  and 
for  the  first  time  ascended  the  altar  steps.  But  here, 
above  his  head,  the  trills  of  the  nightingale  an- 
swered to  the  whistling  of  other  birds.  While  winged 
throngs  around  him  joined  in  the  natural  choir,  he  may 
341 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

have  thought  how  different  such  songs  were  from  the 
swelling  sounds  of  revolutionarj'  mobs  surrounding  an 
altar  erected  in  the  centre  of  "le  Champ  do  Mars,"  where 
he  had  officiated  at  mass,  on  the  14th  of  July,  1790. 

This  natural  cathedral,  with  its  thoughts  and  visions, 
fades  behind  us,  as  we  sink  deeply  into  other  bowers 
where  the  shadow  of  Talleyrand  seems  still  to  haunt  us. 
Here  and  everywhere  the  trees  grow  high  and  thick,  so 
that  the  sunlight  is  unable  to  pierce  their  leafy  curtains. 
We  are  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  everlasting  twi- 
light, spreading  over  man  and  nature  its  feeling  of  calm 
and  peace.  The  wanderings,  the  sad  experiences,  the 
mistakes,  the  disappointments,  the  griefs  and  sorrows 
of  days  gone  by, — all  seem  to  have  remained  behind 
upon  the  thresholds  of  these  avenues.  For  as  we  enter 
them  we  live  within  the  present,  which  in  our  eyes  ap- 
pears to  be  everlasting,  and  it  has  lost  all  else  material 
about  it.  Our  thoughts  rise  high  above  these  earthly 
surroundings,  above  the  vain  ambitions  of  the  world,  as 
in  the  undisturbed  silence  it  lies  forgotten  at  our  feet 
beneath  its  shroud  of  dead  or  dying  leaves. 

How  could  we  help  wondering  idly  about  many  things, 
as  Talleyrand  had  done  while  following  these  selfsame 
paths  so  many  years  before?  It  was  upon  the  thresh- 
old of  these  avenues  that  he  had  left  the  earliest  and  the 
latest  recollections  of  his  public  life.  His  priesthood  in 
1780,  his  adhesion  to  the  French  Revolution,  his  friend- 
ship with  Mirabeau  in  1790,  his  unsuccessful  mission  to 
London,  his  flight  to  the  LTnited  States  in  1794  (to  escape 
the  raging  Terror),  all  these  episodes  in  his  career  must 
have  welled  up  before  him.  Could  he  here  forget  his 
early  English  love,  or  his  devotion  to  Madame  de  Stael, 
who  had  been  the  first  rays  from  his  star  of  fortune? 
Here,  in  June,  1797,  we  find  him  as  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs,  and  the  friend  of  Bonaparte,  who  makes  him  his 
confidant  about  the  expedition  to  Egypt.  In  1 799  he  hands 
242 


VALENCAY 

in  his  resignation,  and  becomes  the  mainspring  of  the 
"Concordat."  Asa  reward  the  Pope  releases  him  from 
his  vows,  and  he  marries  Mrs.  Grand,  a  "divorcde,"  in 
i8oj.  Now  at  the  heiyht  of  his  glory,  loaded  with  titles, 
honors,  fortune,  he  sees  that  his  benefactor  is  losing 
ground  in  the  opinions  of  the  people.  He  sees  that  the 
Empire  must  soon  give  way  to  the  Monarchy;  and  slowly 
the  great  diplomat  begins — and  having  once  begun  he 
tinds  it  wonderfully  easy — to  forget  the  kindnesses  and 
the  favors  of  his  Emperor. 

In  1S14  he  is  the  ally  of  the  Czar  Alexander  and  the 
Comte  d'Artois,  to  overthrow  Napoleon.  He  dictates  to 
the  Senat  the  act  by  which  the  Emperor  is  deposed,  and  he 
becomes,  again,  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs.  During 
the  "Cent  jours"  he  resists  the  advances  of  the  Emperor 
and  becomes  the  Great  Chamberlain  under  Louis  XVHI. 
He  is  among  the  first  to  acquiesce  in  the  fall  of  the 
Restoration,  and  in  1830  Louis  Philippe  sends  him  as 
ambassador  to  England. 

Still  we  wander  on,  and  we  wonder  if  in  the  undis- 
turbed silence  of  these  peaceful  surroundings  a  voice 
which  never  shall  be  hushed  did  not  at  times  sound  harshly 
in  the  ears  of  Talleyrand.  For  though  the  voices  of  the 
world  may  applaud,  and  say,  "The  end  is  a  success,  and 
so  it  has  been  good,"  the  voice  of  conscience  is  ever  there 
in  answer  that  the  means  were  evil.  Perhaps,  however, 
the  diplomat  had  made  a  compromise  between  his  world 
and  the  voice  of  conscience,  and  believed  that  the  serv- 
ices to  his  country  more  than  counterbalanced  the  harm 
which  he  had  done  to  many.  Perhaps,  thus  easily  satis- 
fied, he  rested  in  the  shade  of  laurels  gathered  from  so 
many  hapless  trees. 

Now  we  linger  in  the  vale,  beside  the  peaceful  Nahon, 
with  the  deer.  Far  above  the  head  the  castle  stands, 
cold  and  dignified,  while  trees  cluster  about  its  base. 
Here  and  there  they  hide  the  white  stone  of  its  terraces, 

»43 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y ,  Y 


T .  T 


T.Y 


Y .  Y 


rising  one  above  the  other  like  a  gigantic  pedestal.  We 
give  to  it  a  last  look  as  we  wind  our  way  up  the  steep 
path.  We  stop  half-way  before  some  strange  and  inter- 
esting caves,  whose  entrances  are  so  hidden  by  surround- 
ing trees  that  they  appear  suddenly  amid  a  bower  of 
green.  These  caves  look  like  some  colossal  church,  so 
deep  and  wide  that  it  might  shelter  a  whole  army.  Men 
have  hewn  them  from  the  solid  rocks,  and  the  castle  of 
Valengay,  built  from  these  stones,  has  thus  sprung  out 
of  the  bowels  of  the  clifif.  We  walk  on  between  walls 
of  clipped  yoke-elm  which  rise  on  both  sides  like 
a  long  gallery.  Finally  we  come  to  a  wide  circle 
from  which  start,  at  intervals,  eight  similar  ave- 
nues. The  whole  is  like  an  emerald  star  lying  at  a 
steep  incline  upon  the  slope  of  the  hill.  The  eight 
points  are  some  hundred  yards  in  length.  These  go 
toward  the  terraces  above,  then  down  to  meet  the  valley, 
and  the  two  last  lose  themselves  to  the  right  and  left. 
Some  are  clear  as  the  shining  jewel  and  sparkle  in 
the  setting  sun.  Others  seem  to  hold  flowers  within 
them,  and  the  dark  spots  become  darker  amid  the  sur- 
rounding lights.  Talleyrand  must  have  stood  where  we 
are  now,  in  the  centre  of  this  self-created  star.  But  its 
points,  as  bright  and  clear  as  if  they  were  cut  from 
precious  stones,  may  have  seemed  to  him  perhaps  em- 
blems of  his  life,  not  the  real  points  of  a  star,  but  simply 
channels — means,  more  or  less  bright  and  clear,  though 
often  dark  and  bristling  with  difficulties — all  leading 
toward  one  still  aim,  that  of  his  own  renown.  Perhaps 
this  star  shines  now,  a  living  picture  of  that  life  whose 
motto  was  so  distinctly  that  the  end  shall  justify  the 
means. 

A  last  look  from  the  terrace,  from  the  parterre  of  the 

Duchess,  toward  the  park  at  our  feet — another  toward  the 

castle  behind  us,  and  we  cross  the  court,  with  its  arcade, 

its  basin  of  silent  water,  and  its  views  beyond.     Another 

244 


VALENCAY 


Y .  V 


V .  i 


look  behind  at  the  toweres,  at  the  moats,  and  we  are 
already  beyond  the  gates  and  in  the  forest.  Once  more 
beneath  the  leather  hood  of  our  victoria  we  review  the 
vivid  impressions  left  upon  our  minds  by  Valen^ay. 
The  rain  and  hail  of  a  second  storm  fall  in  torrents 
around  us,  and  drop  so  heavily  from  the  leather  hood 
that  we  are  drenched  and  cold.  But  our  chestnut 
mare  plods  on  faster  at  every  turn,  as  if  she  had  but 
just  left  the  stable.  Villantrois  appears  against  the 
sky  once  more,  and  vanishes  again  like  a  faint  flash  of 
lightning.  Now  we  are  within  the  valley  of  the  Cher,  and 
at  last  our  mare,  our  driver,  the  victoria,  the  Comte  and 
I  all  stop  in  front  of  the  hotel  at  Saint  Aignan.  And 
here  once  more  the  master,  the  mistress,  the  sen,-ants, 
and  the  men  and  maids  await  us.  ' '  Make  haste ;  a  drop 
of  brandy! — 'c'est  si  r^conforUnt"  "  But  we  have  no 
time  for  omelettes  or  for  imitation  coffee  this  afternoon 
— and  we  start  again,  this  time  for  the  station  at  Chenon- 
ceau,  where  we  are  to  spend  our  last  night. 


i .  T 


T .  i 


t.i 


MS 


i ,  V 


CHAPTER    XI 


FROM    CHENONCEAU    TO    AZAV 

Once  more  we  are  to  make  an  early  start,  for  we  have 
twelve  French  "Heues"  to  walk  during  the  day.  It  is  the 
distance  from  Chenonceau  to  Montbazon. 

The  name  of  the  little  town  sotmds  familiar  to  our  ears, 
and  our  thoughts  turn  back  instinctively  to  the  days 
of  Anne  of  Austria,  and  of  Louis  XIII.  It  was  then 
that  the  famous  Duchesse  de  Montbazon  engaged  in  a 
court  intrigue  with  the  Duchesse  de  Longeville  which 
ended  in  that  singular  epoch  of  French  history  known  as 
the  "Women's  War." 

As  we  gaze  back  over  the  centuries  we  may  see  the 
Princess  Louise  de  Montpensier,  "la  Grande  Mademoi- 
selle," turning  the  guns  of  the  Bastille  against  her  cousin, 
the  Regent.  The  all-powerful  Richelieu  is  conquered  at 
last  by  the  hand  of  death,  and  is  succeeded  by  the  hated 
Cardinal  Mazarin.  Again  our  thoughts  drift  back  to 
"Madame  la  Duchesse" — and  to  Montbazon  itself, 
twelve  "lieues"  distant.  Madame  Dessert  stands  upon 
the  threshold  of  her  door,  wishing  us  a  last  farewell  in  a 
tone  of  deep  regret.  We  had  become  great  friends  with 
our  quaint  old  hostess,  with  her  gossip  about  the  chateau 
and  its  neighbors,  and  with  her  wonderful  chignon — 
forever  in  the  way,  and  utterly  without  use.  We  had  all 
become  great  friends  during  the  three  short  days  of  our 
stay  at  Chenonceau,  and  now  we  were  sad  at  parting. 

"I  hope  that  ces  messieurs  have  been  made  comfort- 
able," says  Madame  Dessert,  as  we  are  leaving  the  "Bon 
246 


FROM    CHENONCEAU    TO    AZAY 

Labourcur. "  "And  I  hope  that  they  may  return  nert 
spring,  when  my  father's  collection  of  peonies  is  in 
blossom.  The  peonies  are  very  well  known  about  here. 
Au  rcvoir,  messieurs.  Ces  messieurs  would  not  care  to 
purchase  a  little  souvenir  of  Chcnonceau,  I  suppose,  a 
vase  or  a  cup  of  faience  de  Blois?" 

The  fact  that  Madame  Dessert  possessed  a  father 
would  alone  have  been  enough  to  entice  our  steps  once 
more  to  Chenonccau;  but  this  seductive  invitation  to 
carry  away  some  souvenirs  with  us  was  not  to  be  refused, 
and  we  purchased  a  tiny  saucer  of  blue  china,  molded  into 
the  shape  of  a  heart.  In  the  centre  of  it  was  a  little 
medallion  representing  a  swan  in  silver,  pierced  by  an 
arrow.  It  could  scarcely  have  been  called  pretty;  but 
that  was  of  no  consequence. 

"This  was  the  emblem  of  Queen  Claude  de  France," 
said  the  Comte,  as  we  started.  "She  assumed  it  as  a 
symbol  of  her  unhappy  love.  But  we  will  take  it  as  the 
symbol  of  our  sorrow  at  leaving  this  beautiful  chateau 
and  its  little  auberge." 

As  I  looked  back,  Madame  Dessert  was  still  standing 
at  the  door  waving  an  old  lace  handkerchief  to  us  as  we 
disappeared. 

"People  say  that  Frenchmen  have  a  love  for  change," 
the  Comte  continued,  as  we  walked  along.  "But  every 
now  and  then  we  take  a  fancy  to  a  place,  although  it  may 
often  be  unworthy  of  the  fancy,  and  we  love  to  remain 
there  as  long  as  it  may  last.  In  my  own  case  I  know 
that  I  am  often  apt  to  associate  a  place  with  some 
interesting  parts  of  my  own  life,  and  while  I  am  there  I 
even  live  through  many  different  lives.  For  instance, 
since  we  have  been  here  I  have  lived  the  lives  of  all  the 
owners  of  Chenonceau,  and  I  must  confess  that  the  lives 
of  the  last  two  have  not  interested  me  as  much  as  the 
others. "  The  Comte  looked  ver}-  wise,  as  if  he  were  about 
to  annoimce  the  solution  of  a  great  problem,  and  then 
»47 


^a^^^^K 


y^d^ 


a 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

added:  "It  is  because  they  lacked  the  brilliancy  and 
glamour  necessary  to  such  a  chateau.  Chenonceau  now  is 
to  me  cold  and  bare.  Everything  is  beautiful,  and  yet 
all  needs  more  life,  more  action.  I  would  rather  see  the 
park  open  to  all,  instead  of  these  closed  gates,  behind 
which  a  gardener  or  a  servant  crosses  an  avenue  which 
should  be  rutted  by  the  wheels  of  royal  coaches,  or  lingers 
in  alleys  where  the  ladies  of  a  court  should  wander." 
My  friend  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  started 
off  again.  "I  love  to  see  the  peasant  have  a  feeling 
of  respect,  as  well  as  love,  for  the  chatelains,  instead 
of  the  fear  and  defiance  one  finds  so  often  in  our  days. 
The  only  way  to  produce  and  increase  these  emotions 
is  to  see  something  of  the  peasants  themselves  and  to 
make  them  feel  that  it  is  a  real  pleasure  to  speak  with 
them  or  even  to  meet  them.  They  will  both  love  and 
respect  a  man  who  surrounds  himself  with  that  outward 
form  and  decorum  which  his  station  may  call  for,  and 
who  does  not  allow  those  beneath  him  to  forget  that  he  is 
their  superior.  They  see  that  he  is  so  sure  of  himself 
that  he  fears  nothing,  and  that  nothing  can  alter  his 
opinions.  Familiarity  never  brings  this  feeling.  It  will 
only  breed  contempt,  the  most  fatal  thing  to  gain  con- 
trol of  the  peasant's  mind. 

"I  have  seen  the  strangest  things  done  to  win 
popularity.  Chatelains  will  sometimes  force  their  chil- 
dren to  play  with  those  of  the  village  and  even  give  them 
toys  or  things  to  eat."  And  the  Comte  fairly  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  such  familiarity.  He  would 
have  died  rather  than  allow  it! 

"A  very  odd  habit  of  becoming  popular,"  I  put  in,  with 
emphasis,  "a  very  odd    habit  indeed." 

"Do  you  suppose  that,  once  grown  up,  these  children 
would  allow  the  peasants  to  call  them  by  their  Christian 
names?"  he  continued.  "Certainly  not,  my  friend,  cer- 
tainly not.  And  very  naturally  the  day  they  forbid  it 
248 


FROM  chp:nonceau   ro  azay 

they  will  be  called  proud,  and  will  be  disliked  by  the 
peasant.  There  is  nothinjf  more  important  to  society  at 
larjje  than  for  the  right  persons  to  be  in  their  right  places. 
The  very  order  of  things  requires  it,  just  as  it  does  in 
everything  else,  and  I  think  that  the  chatelains  of 
chateaux  inherit  duties  which  very  few  understand  in 
our  days." 

"You  are  so  conservative  in  all  your  ideas,  my  friend," 
said  I,  when  he  had  finished,  "that  you  must  be  struck, 
continually,  by  the  lack  of  outward  observances  in  all 
classes  and  in  all  things  nowadays.  Why,  even  I  notice 
it  greatly ;  and  you  know  that  I  come  from  a  country  and 
from  surroundings  which  have  had  a  great  influence  upon 
the  whole  world  in  such  matters." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  the  Comte  broke  in,  "and  it  is  extraor- 
dinary how  much  it  has  affected  Europe  in  this  direction. 
I  am  sorr)'  for  it ;  for  what  may  produce  good  results  in 
that  New  World,  which  is  based  upon  such  principles  and 
doctrines,  does  not  succeed  always  in  older  countries 
where  the  traditions  and  training  of  centuries  call  for 
other  methods  and  for  different  institutions.  We  see  it 
immediately  in  the  very  question  before  us.  Familiarity, 
possibly  a  good  thing  among  people  who  consider  one 
another  upon  an  equal  footing  in  society,  does  not  produce 
the  same  effect  among  those  who  have  been  irreparably 
divided  for  centuries  and  must  always  be.  It  is  mis- 
understood on  account  of  the  existing  customs,  from 
which  Europe  will  never  break  away.  These  are  so 
firmly  rooted  and  so  solid  in  their  foundations  that  to  tear 
them  up  now  would  only  be  to  destroy  the  peace  and 
order  which  exists,  without  giving  an  improvement  in  re- 
turn." 

"It  seems  to  me  a  mistake  to  make  changes  in  the  insti- 
tutions of  a  country  which  arc  of  no  benefit.  This  rest- 
lessness is  far  too  popular  at  present.  You  can  sec  it  as 
well  as  I.     But   the  reaction   is  bound   to  come,  as  you 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


.-,       «•»  wf     yourself  have  often  said.     There !    We  are  drifting  back    ^    ,«.         • 
A  Ah      again  to  our  favorite    theme,    so  I  will  stop  and   listen     £0     ^  9 

to  you."  And  I  paused  to  pick  a  great  branch  of  honey- 
suckle which  was  hanging  over  our  path.  The  Comte 
smelt  of  the  feathery  flowers  which  I  held  up  in  an 
absent  manner,  as  if  his  mind  were  busy  with  another 
subject,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  broke  the  silence. 

"My  thoughts  still  run  back  to  Chenonceau,"  said  he, 
turning  to  take  a  last  glance  at  the  picture  behind  us,  as 
we  crested  the  top  of  a  gentle  hill.  "You  will  think  me 
odd,  I  know ;  but  I  am  much  sadder  at  leaving  the  old 
hotel— and  Madame — than  the  chateau  itself,  with  all  its 
C  *i"  IW  beauty  and  history.  There  was  an  air  of  conservatism  cj  'V'  V 
'  i  •  W  about  the  little  cottage,  about  the  quaint  old  room,  with  T^  •  i  • 
its  chest  of  drawers  and  its  cupboard,  about  the  lady  of 
the  house  especially.  It  delighted  me.  I  felt  at  home. 
The  pure  language  of  Touraine  fell  on  my  ear  like 
notes  of  music,  so  perfectly  in  harmony  was  it  with  my 
thoughts. 

"Yesterday  evening,  when   you   had   left  me,  I  found 
myself  descending    the    winding  flight  of  stairs,  I  knew 
not  whither.     As  I  reached  the  lower  floor  a  door  stood 
open.     It  led  into  the  dining-room,  I  discovered,  and  as 
■"a*       •>   VJ     ^  entered  I  found  our  landlady  seated  at  the  further  end.    \u    .-.        ,-, 
f  §    Jh     She  had  been  reading  a  book ;   but  as  she  perceived  ™e    pj     |     ^    ^ 

she  closed  it  hastily  and  rose  to  receive  me.  'Pray  do 
not  mind,'  I  said,  'I  drifted  in  here  by  accident,  more 
because  I  found  the  door  ajar  than  for  anything  else.' 

"'Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,'  she  answered,  'I  was 
only  reading  a  book  on  Chenonceau. ' 

"  'On  Chenonceau!'  I  returned,  somewhat  surprised, 
for  she  looked  old  enough  to  know  more  of  the  place  in 
which  she  lived  than  any  book  which  could  have  been 
written  about  it. 

"'Monsieur  will   understand,'   she  added,  by  way  o^    .^     . 
*A*        X    (j/     explanation,  'that  for  us  who  live  here  Chenonceau  is  our    Vj     £       'jT 

i 


FROM    ClIHNONCKAL'     lO    AZAY 


r .  i 


V ,  V 


all.  My  father,  grandfather  and  great-grandfather  were 
all  bom  and  bred  here;  and  they  kept  this  same  hotel 
before  I  was  born.  You  know,  monsieur,  that  a  change 
of  owners  at  the  chateau  may  have  for  us  a  vital  impor- 
tance. If  Chenonceau  is  beautifully  kept  up,  the  park 
opened  to  visitors  and  the  castle  filled  with  guests,  it 
means  life  to  the  whole  village,  and  to  some  of  us  wealth 
even.  But  if,  on  the  contrary,  the  park  is  closed  and 
htrangers  are  not  permitted  to  visit  the  chateau,  then  the 
travel,  the  visiting,  the  tourists,  all  stop,  and  it  is  ruin 
for  us.  So  you  see,  monsieur,  that  this  is  why  every  one 
in  Chenonceau  is  interested  in  the  doings  of  those  who 
live  at  the  chateau.  When  it  was  sold  the  last  time  every 
one  asked,  "Will  the  new  masters  be  severe,  or  will  they 
be  chatelains  like  our  dear  old  ones  who  are  gone?"  It 
was  a  vital  question,  monsieur,  a  vital  question.'  And 
the  poor  old  lady  seemed  lost  for  a  moment,  as  she  shook 
her  head  at  the  thoughts  which  came  into  her  mind.  Then 
she  continued:  'So,  monsieur,  when  you  see  the  whole 
village  running  to  their  doors  at  the  sound  of  a  carriage, 
of  people,  you  must  not  take  it  for  curiosity,  though  it 
may  be  that  in  part,  for  it  is  chiefly  because  each  car- 
riage that  enters  Chenonceau  brings  visitors  who  stop. 
And  that  means  money,  and  ///<?/  means  life  and  existence 
for  the  village. 

"  'Ah  I  It  is  no  more  as  it  used  to  be  in  olden  times, 
some  twenty-five  years  ago.  Not  a  day  passed  then  with- 
out bringing  several  of  those  large  coaches  drawn  by  four 
horses,  with  postilions  cracking  their  short-handled  whips. 
I  remember  mighty  foreigners,  known  as  "lors  Anglais," 
sending  their  couriers  before  them  to  reserve  the  whole 
hotel.  And  what  a  stir  it  would  make  in  the  village! 
The  news  would  spread  like  wildfire,  and  each  of  the 
neighbors  would  bring  something  from  his  garden  or 
larder,  something  which  they  thought  might  please  the 
"lor"   and  induce  him  to  come  back  again  and  bring  his 


'4  .  T 


T ,  T 


f .  %' 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

friends.  And  what  tips  those  "lors"  used  to  give!  But 
now,  monsieur,  each  year  brings  fewer  people,  and  the 
"lors"  have  been  replaced  by  bourgeois,  who  never  pay 
their  bills  without  discussing  each  item  and  losing  their 
temper  over  ten  sous. 

"  'If  you  only  knew,  monsieur,  how  pleased  we  are  to 
see  some  of  our  old  aristocratic  French  families  again, 
who  have  a  fellow-feeling  with  us  about  the  olden  times. 
Ah,  monsieur,  money  is  no  more  in  the  right  hands. 
People  have  it,  but  they  do  not  know  how  to  spend  it  any 
more.  Monsieur  will  do  me  the  honor,  I  hope,  of  inscrib- 
ing his  name  in  my  visitors'  book. '  And  she  opened  a 
large  leather-bound  book,  in  which  I  signed  my  name. 

"  'Thank  you,  monsieur,  thank  you,'  said  she,  and  she 
made  me  a  sweeping  courtesy. 

"I  left  her,  and  as  I  returned  to  my  room  I  thought 
with  interest  of  this  family  bom  in  the  very  shades  of  the 
chateau,  living  by  it,  respecting  it  and  loving  it  for  more 
than  six  generations.  I  thought  of  how  much  the  walls 
of  my  own  room  might  tell,  if  only  they  could  speak,  of 
fortune,  sorrow  or  adversity.  And  I  thought  how  much 
good  a  chatelain  could  and,  in  fact,  how  much  good  all 
can  do  to-day  for  a  village  and  for  the  lives  around  them. 
I  thought  of  how,  in  this  way,  they  might  work  for  society 
itself.  And  I  thought,  too,  how  few  who  possess  the 
means  to  do  so  know  how  to  distribute  the  little  good  that 
they  do. ' ' 

"You  take  a  very  discouraging  view  of  the  present 
state  of  affairs,"  said  I.  "If  things  are  as  you  say,  what 
do  you  consider  the  cause  of  them  to  be?" 

"I  think  it  comes  first,"  the  Comte  replied,  "from 
money  changing  hands  as  it  has  done  of  late  years.  You 
have  precisely  this  same  state  of  affairs  with  the  same 
results  in  your  own  country,  only  to  a  greater  extent 
because  it  is  more  imiversally  adopted  there.  I  am  sur- 
prised that  you  even  asked  me  the  question.     It  may  look 

252 


FROM    CHENONCEAU     TO    AZAY 

well  with  you,  like  a  thousand  other  things  appropriate 
to  a  new  continent,  framed  upon  a  new  basis  and  with 
new  ideas;  but  it  could  never  do  good  adopted  here."' 
The  Comte  shook  his  head  sadly.  "That  is  one  of  the 
misunderstood  principles,  one  of  the  disadvantageous 
effects  which  the  New  World  has  had  upon  the  Old. 
You  remember  our  conversation  yesterday  on  the  road  to 
Valen^ay.  It  is  the  same  old  storj',  old  in  its  working 
and  yet  ever  new  in  its  result,  money  leaving  the 
hands  of  an  aristocracy  which  has  lost  the  power  of  pro- 
ducing it  through  idleness  or  prejudice,  money  leaving 
the  higher  class,  which  has  been  taught  to  spend  it,  to  be 
accumulated  by  a  lower  one,  which  knows  not  how  to 
spend  it,  but  has  been  taught  to  work  for  it.  That  is 
what  we  spoke  of  yesterday,  and  see  how  even  to-day  it  is 
brought  again  to  our  notice. 

"You  asked  me  what  the  causes  were  for  our  present 
state  of  affairs.  Well,  that  is  the  first  one,  I  think,  and 
the  second  is  this:  Those  members  of  the  aristocracy  who 
still  retain  the  power  and  the  means  of  exercising  a  salu- 
tarj-  influence  upon  the  community  are  enveloped  in  a  pall 
of  inactivity,  an  apathy  which  seems  to  prevent  them  from 
making  a  bold  stand  or  asserting  their  position.  Religion 
and  inherited  principles,  so  strong  in  all  of  us,  are  the 
great  checks  to  the  present  overflow  of  vice.  In  your  own 
countr}-  you  have  a  striking  example  of  this  in  the  influ- 
ence of  Puritanism  upon  the  morals  of  New  England.  You 
may  think  this  rather  a  far-stretched  simile.  But  we 
realize  all  this  in  France;  only  the  effects  are  not  so 
strong  with  us  because  we  do  not  know  how,  or  more 
correctly,  we  do  not  take  the  trouble  of  keeping  these 
influences  alive  by  giving  the  example  ourselves.  The 
peasant  of  France  is  like  the  sheep  of  a  flock.  He  follows 
the  majority,  and  the  majority  in  turn  follows  the 
chatelain  of  its  village,  so  that  if  all  goes  wrong  the 
responsibility  as  a  rule  must  fall  upon  the  latter. 

353 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T ,  T 


T .  T 


T ,  ¥ 


V .  Y 


"Religion,  or  at  least  the  outward  observances  of  it, 
is  still  deeply  rooted  in  the  hearts  of  the  highest  class. 
Almost  every  chateau,  as  you  see  in  the  ones  which  we 
have  already  visited,  has  its  private  chapel,  where  mass  is 
often  said  even  on  Sunday.  But  the  very  fact  of  having 
private  chapels  prevents  the  chatelain  from  going  to  the 
village  church.  It  is  more  convenient  to  stay  at  home. 
And  so,  because  he  does  not  see  the  master  in  the 
"banc  seigneurial"  at  "la  Grande  Messe"  on  Sunday, 
the  peasant  draws  the  conclusion  that  he  is  not  a  religious 
man  and  that  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  be  what  his 
master  is  not. 

"Yesterday  I  went  to  early  mass  in  the  little  church  of 
Chenonceau,  and  saw  there  a  striking  example  of  what 
I  have  just  told  you.  On  entering  the  church  I  was 
struck  with  the  poverty  exhibited  on  every  side.  Not  an 
ornament ;  not  even  the  care  which  the  respect  of  church 
demands.  The  paint  of  the  walls  had  been  washed  away 
by  time  and  the  rain  which  had  leaked  in  through  the  bat- 
tered roof.  The  walls  themselves  were  bare  and  cracked 
in  many  places.  In  fact,  the  whole  interior  looked 
like  an  abode  of  misery.  And  when  I  thought  to 
myself  that  it  had  been  a  royal  chapel,  that  'la  Reine 
Blanche'  had  knelt  upon  these  selfsame  stones,  knelt  and 
prayed  for  the  soul  of  her  departed  king,  when  I  thought 
of  generations  of  pious  chatelains  such  as  Monsieur 
Dupin  and  Monsieur  de  Villeneuve,  I  could  not  but  feel 
how  a  few  years  of  neglect,  and  the  absence  of  a 
chatelain  for  a  short  time,  make  themselves  felt  upon 
everything,  even  to  the  village  church. ' ' 

"One  may  well  imagine  this  when  such  a  chateau  as 
the  one  you  have  been  speaking  of  is  left  to  bats  and 
owls,"  said  I.  "All  must  suffer,  necessarily,  since  they 
are  all  dependent  upon  it.  But  tell  me  more  of  what 
you  saw  in  the  little  church.  I  did  not  visit  it  and  this 
interests  me." 


254 


FROM    CHKNONCEAU    TO    AZAY 


T .  i 


T .  Y 


T .  i 


V .  i 


"Do  you  really  care  about  it?"  said  my  friend  inquir- 
injjly.  "I  am  so  fond  of  these  matters  myself  that  I  am 
inclined  to  take  it  for  granted  that  others  are  also.  Yet 
I  feared  that  it  might  not  interest  you.  But  to  go  back 
to  the  village  church.  A  little  girl  about  fourteen  was 
on  her  knees  in  the  middle  of  the  centre  aisle.  Some 
vases  made  of  blue  glass,  such  as  we  see  at  country  fairs, 
were  upon  the  flagstones  beside  her,  and  a  pile  of  flow- 
ers, some  wild,  some  cultivated,  lay  near  by.  She  was 
a  very  pretty  little  girl.  Her  rosy  cheeks,  her  auburn 
hair  hanging  down  to  her  shoulders,  her  bright  smile 
which  brought  with  it  two  dimples,  all  made  her  a 
picture  fair  to  see.  Her  sleeves  were  tucked  up  to  the 
elbows,  and  she  was  picking  up  the  flowers  one  by  one 
and  arranging  them  in  the  vases.  At  last,  when  they 
were  all  in  place,  she  brought  an  old  tin  water  can  and 
filled  the  vases  with  water.  As  she  placed  them  on  the 
altar  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  I  could  see  her  head  move, 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  another,  as  she  completed 
her  task. 

"She  turned  and  called:  'Justin,  Justin;  bring  the 
candles!'  And  a  little  boy  of  six  or  seven  came  from 
behind  the  altar  bearing  them,  sad  mockeries  of  what 
they  should  have  been, — but  small  remains,  half-eaten  by 
the  rats.  As  I  looked  at  them  I  could  picture  the  care 
with  which  these  poor,  unkempt  pieces  of  wax  were  put 
away  each  Sunday  evening  to  be  used  the  next  week. 

"  'Justin,  the  tissue  paper,"  cried  the  little  girl, 
quickly,  'or  it  will  be  time  for  the  mass  and  all  will  not 
be  ready.' 

"Justin  brought  the  paper,  and  the  candles  were  made 
steady  by  it  in  the  great  silver  candlesticks  ten  times  as 
heavy  as  the  taper. 

"  'Now,  Justin,  go  and  ring,'  and  the  little  Justin 
turned  once  more,  this  time  to  drag  with  all  his  might  the 
heavy  rope  which  hung  from  the  vaulted  roof.     The  bell 

25s 


i .  T 


T .  i 


f .  i 


i .  T 


)1^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

answered  in  a  shrill,  almost  discordant  tone  that  struck 
the  silence  like  some  sharp  stone  upon  an  even  surface. 
The  door  of  the  sacristy  opened,  and  an  old  man  in  a 
white  surplice  entered  the  church  and  seated  himself  in 
one  of  the  stalls.  He  was  soon  followed  by  the  priest  in 
his  long  robes.  The  bell  stopped  ringing;  the  boy  ran 
to  the  altar  steps ;  the  mass  began.  I  turned  my  head 
as  the  priest  began  to  speak,  and  saw  two  women  enter 
the  church.  One,  the  elder  of  the  two  by  some  years, 
was  dressed  simply  in  black.  The  other  was  a  young 
girl  scarcely  eighteen.  Her  golden  hair  and  fair  skin 
made  her  seem  even  less.  She  looked  not  unlike  an  angel 
fallen  there  from  Heaven.  There  were  no  other  wor- 
shippers in  the  church.     We  three  were  the  only  ones. 

"As  I  stepped  out  into  the  sunshine  and  the  day  once 
more  after  mass,  I  found  my  little  flower  girl  standing  by 
the  door.     I  asked  her  what  her  name  was. 

"  'Marie  L ,'  she  answered;  'I  am  the  daughter  of 

L ,   who  was  the    gardener  of  the   dear  masters  of 

Chenonceau  who  are  no  more.  But  we  still  live  here, 
monsieur;  we  shall  always  live  here,  although  my  father 
is  no  longer  employed  at  the  chateau. ' 

"I  found  my  way  back  to  the  hotel,  saddened  by  the 
thought  of  all  that  I  had  seen  and  heard.  I  wondered 
about  the  two  women  who  alone  out  of  the  whole  place 
had  attended  the  mass.  Yes,  in  this  place  religion  seemed 
to  crumble  like  the  stones  and  mortar  which  had  needed 
kings  and  queens  to  hold  them  together.  I  asked  not 
why,  because  I  knew.  The  last  could  be  the  only 
answer.  But  that  young  girl,  with  a  face  so  beautiful,  so 
young,  so  open;  who  was  she?  And  I  answered  myself: 
Perhaps  it  was  the  daughter,  not  of  the  old  servant,  put 
by  and  forgotten  with  the  departed  life  of  those  who  were 
gone,  but  of  the  new  masters  who  now  replaced  them. 
As  she  rose  up  in  my  mind  beside  the  tiny  flower  girl,  it 
made  a  striking  contrast,  picturesque  and  yet  tinged  with 


^al 


FROM    CHENONCEAU    TO    A/AY 


sadness.  But  if  this  were  true,  I  tlioujjht,  then  give  the 
new  daughter  of  the  chateau  and  its  life  but  a  little  time 
and  the  crumblin^j  stones  of  the  old  church  would  soon 
be  replaced  and  the  church  itself  be  filled  with  worship- 
pers. Ah!  How  much  there  is  in  a  little  influence  to 
attract  our  fickle  natures!"  exclaimed  the  Comtc,  as  he 
concluded. 

"There  again  is  an  instance  of  how  we  may  be  led  by 
an  example  given  to  us  in  an  appealing  way.  That  little 
episode  at  Chenonceau  has  impressed  me  not  a  little." 

"I  like  your  story,"  said  I,  when  he  had  finished, 
"and  I  sympathize  with  the  point  which  you  brought  out 
in  it.  You  made  it  so  interesting  that  I  only  now  notice 
that  we  are  wet  through  by  the  mist." 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  said  the  Comte,  lightly.  "You 
are  not  made  of  sugar,  I  suppose.  You  will  not  melt  or 
dissolve,  will  you?" 

I  was  uncertain  whether  or  not  I  should  melt  or  even 
dissolve  by  some  unknown  chemical  process.  I  certainly 
felt  as  if  I  might  at  any  moment.  But  my  friend  was  too 
busy  with  his  own  thoughts  to  bother  himself  much  one 
way  or  the  other. 

We  had  reached  Blbre  after  crossing  a  stone  bridge 
over  the  Cher.  The  village,  once  a  town,  was  left  behind 
us,  and  we  turned  at  right  angles  to  take  the  road  to 
Montbazon  by  way  of  Athde.  It  runs  by  the  river  for 
a  mile  or  so,  and  leaves  the  valley  abruptly,  to  climb 
a  hill  and  reach  the  plateau  where  the  little  village  first 
appears.  A  Romanesque  church  rises  from  among  the 
houses,  and  near  by  the  roofs  of  a  little  chateau  of  the 
fifteenth  century  show  themselves  above  the  trees  of  its 
park. 

"We  are  to  stop  here  for  ddjeuner,"  said  the  Comte. 

"If  you  will  order  it  I  will  go  as  far  as  the  church. "     And 

when  he  returned  we  sat  down  to  our  beefsteak  bdarnaise, 

our  pomme  de  terres  soufllds,  our  sparkling  vin  de  vour- 

-57 


^a^a^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

ray,  and  the  rest,  with  tired  limbs  and  a  good  appetite. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  tasted  anything  so  good 
as  this  simple  ddjeuner,  perhaps  because  I  had  ordered 
it,  as  the  Comte  suggested. 

While  we  were  at  table  a  hard  wind  cleared  away 
the  mist,  and  when  we  started  it  was  dry  again,  almost 
cold,  notwithstanding  the  month  of  August.  We  walked 
along  for  some  miles,  ever  on  this  same  plateau  now 
swept  by  the  wind.  I  think  that  we  must  have  walked 
for  two  hours  in  silence.  At  last  we  reached  a  village, 
and  there  my  companion  broke  the  long  silence. 

"What  have  you  been  thinking  of  these  last  hours?" 
said  he,  turning  toward  me  suddenly. 

"What  have  I  been  thinking  of?"  I  repeated  vaguely. 
The  sound  of  a  voice  seemed  almost  strange,  so  long  had 
we  remained  silent.  "Of — of — I  fear  it  would  be  difiBcult 
for  me  to  say.  My  mind  has  been  so  full  of  thoughts  of 
many  kinds  that  I  find  it  almost  beyond  me  to  put  them 
into  words.  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  wind,  of  the  pleas- 
ure I  should  feel  in  reaching  the  valley  and  at  the  same  time 
of  the  disappointment  in  leaving  the  plateau.  And  then 
my  thoughts  wandered  off  from  that  into  a  thousand 
channels,  catching  up  something  long  forgotten  here  and 
running  on  ever  before  me  like  the  ground  on  which  we 
walked." 

"I,  too,  have  been  indulging  in  much  the  same  mood. 
Let  us  sit  down  on  this  heap  of  stones,  and  I  will  tell  you 
of  my  thoughts.  I  feel  in  a  very  poetic  mood — too 
vague  perhaps  for  you;  but  j'ou  must  tell  me  if,  after 
all,  you  have  not  felt  some  of  the  sensations  that  I  en- 
deavor to  describe?" 

The  Comte  threw  himself  down  on  the  grassy  bank 
while  I  sat  upon  the  heap  of  stones  placed  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  to  scatter  in  the  winter  season.  He  leaned  back  in  a 
dreamy  way.  He  seemed  almost  in  a  trance,  as  he  began 
to  speak  more  to  himself  than  to  me: 
258 


\)(^^fe^ 


FROM    CHKNONCEAU    TO    AZAY 

"A  plateau — so  long  that  its  end  is  lost  in  the  horizon, 
so  wide  that  its  limits  are  unseen.  And  this  plateau  is  to 
be  found  hi^h  up  above  two  of  the  most  fertile  valleys  of 
France.  The  wind  wanders  over  it,  beats  it,  sweeps  it, 
and  the  sensation  which  one  feels  at  first  is  pleasing. 
The  first  caress  of  the  wind  calls  forth  a  second,  one  more 
and  again  another.  But,  like  a  certain  love  that  breathes 
as  many  caresses,  it  is  soon  fatigued,  and  finally  it  dies 
altogether.  Yes,  pleasing  at  first,  it  seems  constant,  and 
we  feel  sure  of  it.  Ah,  it  may  remain  so  for  a  space, 
for  an  hour,  a  day,  a  month;  but  seldom  for  a  whole 
year,  seldom  even  for  the  day.  And  this  same  wind,  like 
the  love,  ever  constant  in  our  mind,  ever  changing  in 
reality,  has  passed  over  the  plateau  for  we  know  not  how 
many  centuries.  Now  the  plain  is  bare  and  arid,  cut  by 
a  single  road  stoned  each  year  and  dried  up  by  the  ever- 
beating  wind. 

"A  few  blades  of  grass,  tarnished  and  of  a  grayish 
green,  the  wild  aster,  like  a  blue  star  made  purple  by  the 
wind,  something  yellow,  a  clover  of  some  kind,  a  morning 
glory  which  is  born  white  at  sunrise  and  dies  pink  at 
eve,  a  poppy  which  seems  to  blush  because  it  has  blos- 
somed here,  these  are  all  that  I  see.  A  daisy,  without 
even  strength  enough  to  say,  'Love  me;  love  me  not, '  for 
it  has  but  one  petal  left,  thyme  whose  perfume  intoxicates 
the  air  and  those  who  breathe  it,  and  the  vine  plants,  so 
scarce,  so  puny  that  they  seem  but  scattered  leaves,  and 
the  pipes  which  hold  them  up — these  are  all  which  the 
continuous  wind  has  left  upon  the  plain. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forget, — a  bird,  that  seems  afraid  of  some- 
thing which  we  cannot  see,  cuts  the  air  with  its  indented 
wings.  The  song  we  might  have  heard  has  died  away. 
And  the  little  ones  in  the  nest  3'ondcr  have  stopped  their 
chirping  al.so,  for  they  hear  the  blowing  of  the  wind.  A 
butterfly  has  lost  its  way  and  flies  painfully  from  one 
stunted  flower  to  another.     It  hides  itself  in  the  dust  as  if 

»S9 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y.Y 


Y .  Y 


afraid  to  be  seen.  Some  trees  are  scattered  here  and 
there,  beaten  and  ragged,  but  few  leaves  on  their 
branches,  although  it  is  August.  In  the  distance,  an  old 
.stone  wall  extends  like  an  arrow  over  the  plateau.  The 
stones  have  been  placed  one  on  another  without  mortar, 
and  the  whole  stands  challenging  the  wind  to  kill  those 
few  stray  flowers  that  struggle  for  existence  beneath  its 
sheltering  wing.  A  large  ruined  tower  rises  in  the  west. 
It  is  la  Tour  de  Brandon,  and  it  stands  on  the  edge  of  the 
plateau,  as  if  to  herald  the  coming  of  the  wind,  now  here 
to  stay.  This  is  all,  all  that  there  is  upon  the  plateau 
swept  by  the  air. 

"We  walk — we  run  over  the  dry  road  with  its  heaps  of 
stones,  which  look  as  if  they  might  hide  dead  bodies  and 
which  await  the'  winter  to  be  scattered  abroad.  Hush, 
there  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind  in  our  ears!  It  tells  of 
death  and  ruin  and  waste,  and  we  push  on  without  notic- 
ing the  plants  which  grow,  flower  and  die  beneath  our 
feet.  We  would  leave  behind  us  the  wind  and  its 
fatal  caress,  which  seems  to  absorb  and  kill  all  that  it 
falls  upon.  We  would  depart  from  this  land  (it  seems 
a  whole  country  in  itself,  so  desolate  is  everything 
around),  untouched  by  sunshine  and  at  the  mercy  of  the 
wind.  We  walk  on,  intoxicated,  distracted  almost,  long- 
ing only  to  flee  from  the  blast  which  seems  as  if  it  would 
do  to  us  what  it  has  done  to  the  flowers  and  the  grass. 
And  always  on  the  right  there  remains  the  dismantled 
tower;  always  there  whistles  in  our  ears  the  sad  moan  of 
the  wind.  Now  it  sounds  like  a  harsh  note  in  this  dirge 
of  nature;  now  it  is  but  a  cold  breath  from  the  grave. 

"If  we  had  come  alone  over  the  arid  plain  I  wonder  if 
we  should  have  glanced  with  love  or  pity  at  the  flowers 
which  die  ere  they  are  really  born,  at  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence of  all  that  we  see  about  us.  I  wonder  if  we  should 
have  felt  as  we  do,  or  if  we  should  have  seen  only  a  long 
waste  of  stones  covered  with  dust  and  swept  by  the 
260 

t 


i .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


FROM    CHKNONCKAU     I'O    AZAY 


r .  Y 


V .  V 


eternal  wind.  Rut  as  two  of  us  cross  the  wilderness 
together,  two,  fcelinji  and  seoinj;  alike,  all  is  differ- 
ent. The  dreariness  and  the  stunted  life  take  on  a  dif- 
ferent aspect.  A  feeling  both  of  love  and  pity  for  the 
struggling;  growth  takes  hold  of  us,  and  we  sigh — a  sigh 
of  longing  for  the  valley  and  its  greenness,  a  sigh  of 
regret  also  to  leave  the  plateau  and  the  wind  behind. 
We  feel  the  old  cares,  and  we  remain,  fascinated,  help- 
less. Every  flower  and  shrub  and  blade  of  grass  around 
us  tells  us  of  the  fate  we  too  must  share  if  we  remain,  and 
yet  we  would  linger  one  moment,  one  hour  longer,  among 
withered  flowers  and  others  already  dead.  Let  us  listen 
to  the  wind  and  what  it  says— for  it  seems  to  clasp  us  in 
its  wild  embrace. "  .  .   . 

The  Comte  had  allowed  himself  to  run  on  in  the  mood 
into  which  the  wind  and  the  plateau  had  thrown  him. 
He  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  soliloquy  and  in  the  far- 
off  dreamy  sentiment  which  governed  it  that  I  too  felt  its 
power  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge  its  truth.  It  was 
so  exactly  the  impression  cast  by  this  bit  of  scenery  and 
its  atmosphere. 

We  rose,  half- reluctantly,  as  if  loath  to  throw  aside  the 
charm  in  which  it  held  us.  On  we  sped  again  in  silence, 
busy  with  our  own  thoughts.  I  had  no  inclination  to 
disturb  the  revery,  for  the  everj'day  subjects  of  life 
seemed  out  of  place  here,  and  would  not  take  the  form 
of  words.  And  so  we  walked  always  straight  before 
us,  without  casting  a  glance  behind. 

After  a  time  I  was  aroused  from  our  silence  by  my 
companion. 

"At  la.st,  at  last!"  he  exclaimed.  "We  have  come  to 
the  end  of  the  plain.  See,  there  are  the  first  trees,  the 
first  real  signs  of  verdure  that  we  have  seen  for  I  know 
not  how  long.  There  too  is  the  steeple  of  a  church.  I  am 
glad  the  scene  has  changed.  I  thought  we  were  forever 
in  some  unkno^vn  region  where  death  and  sadness  pre- 
361 


i .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


vailed.  Let  us  take  this  road  upon  the  right.  I  do  not 
know  where  it  leads,  but  possibly  it  will  take  us  to 
some  village.  At  all  events,  the  uncertainty  cannot  be 
worse  than  that  which  we  leave  behind."  So  we  took  the 
road  running  at  right  angles  to  our  own,  and  soon  were 
once  more  in  bowers  of  green  with  verdant  fields  and  over- 
hanging trees.  Before  long  the  road  took  another  turn, 
and  in  a  moment  we  were  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  high 
embankment  overlooking  the  rich  valley  of  I'lndre.  Half 
hidden  by  long  grass  or  bulrushes,  by  trees  or  bushes, 
the  dark  waters  of  the  river  wound  in  and  out  through  the 
vale.  The  shade  and  coloring  of  ever}nhing  in  the  valley 
made  it  look  more  like  an  enchanted  picture  than  a  real- 
ity. One  longed  to  wander  there  amidst  the  green  pas- 
tures and  trees,  where  the  wind  descended  to  give  a  soft 
kiss  only  to  the  leaves  and  arose  again  to  sweep  the 
plain. 

"What  a  very  beautiful  valley!"  I  exclaimed.  "It  is 
more  picturesque  than  either  that  of  the  Cher  or  the  Loire. 
It  seems  to  picture  another  world,  far  different  from  any, 
unless  it  be  that  of  the  golden  ages.  It  would  seem  only 
natural  to  see  some  satyr  dash  out  from  among  yonder 
foliage,  or  some  mythical  creatures  play  upon  pipes  and 
reeds  or  gather  in  a  grove  where  some  marble  statue 
could  overlook  their  merr>'making  near  the  river's 
bank.  The  whole  valley  seems  to  live  on  its  own 
resources,  and  to  have  its  own  mysterious  pleasures  hid- 
den there  between  the  surrounding  hills.  There  is  an 
uncertain  mystery  about  its  very  attraction  and  charm." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Comte,  "look  at  those  hamlets  in 
the  distance,  scarcely  visible  and  seeming  to  be  nestled 
in  the  deep  folds  of  a  great  velvet  cloak.  There  is  the 
village  of  Esvres  clustering  about  the  banks  of  the  river, 
with  its  well-kept  gardens  and  white  houses  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill.  It  is  well  known  as  the  richest  village 
in  the  Canton  of  Montbazon.  It  certainly  has  every 
262 


^a^a^^ 


FROM    CIIKNONCEAU    TO    A /.AY 

natural  advantage  to  make  it  so,  for  it  is  placed  in  one  of 
the  most  lovable  of  French  valleys." 

"What  an  odd  word  to  use  for  a  valley;  lovable!"'  I 
remarked. 

"You  think  so?"  said  the  Comte.  "It  seems  to  me  as 
if  it  were  the  only  term  one  could  apply  to  so  beautiful  a 
spot.  You  must  remember  that  we  are  no  longer  in  the 
splendid  Touraine  of  the  Loire.  I  should  say  here  that 
nature  has  changed  her  dress  to  one  of  a  more  delicate 
tint.  These  surroundings,  to  be  sure,  do  not  strike  that 
high  note  of  ecstasy,  of  natural  delight,  which  one  feels 
in  looking  at  the  noble  chateaux  of  V^ouvray  and  Roche- 
carbon.  But  I  think  one  is  moved  even  more  deeply  by 
this  quiet,  mysterious  and  finished  scenery.  It  seems  to 
me  to  call  forth  love,  rather  than  a  feeling  of  admiration. 
And  then,  you  know,  to  love  much  we  should  not  be  too 
busy  admiring  and  criticising  that  which  we  love.  Yes, 
decidedly,  I  think  this  valley  is  lovable." 

"I  understand  what  you  mean,"  I  replied,  "and  I  do 
not  know  but  that  I  agree  with  you  in  good  part.  You 
seem  to  be  unusually  susceptible  to  the  scenery  to-day. 
But  we  must  not  linger  here  too  long,  for  it  is  already 
five  o'clock,  and  we  have  many  kilometres  before  us  yet, 
according  to  your  map." 

"Dieu,  dieu,  dieu,  my  dear  friend,"  the  Comte 
exclaimed,  "how  practical  you  are!  You  cut  short  my 
little  dreams  and  pictures  in  the  most  brutal  fashion." 

"You  must  not  complain,"  I  replied,  "for  it  is  not 
often  I  who  am  in  a  hurry  to  start." 

I  had  in  my  mind  the  day  before,  and  still  could  see 
my  friend  running  frantically  about  with  his  shaving- 
brush — a  perfectly  useless  adjunct  to  our  journey,  as  we 
were  not  to  pass  the  night.  But  so  skeptical  was  he  that 
he  would  rather  have  lost  the  train  than  leave  anything 
behind  which  might  possibly  be  ferreted  away  in  his 
absence.  Not  even  Madame  Dessert  could  be  entrusted 
^63 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

with  the  sacred  necessities  of  his  toilet.  However,  I  did 
not  remind  him  of  the  scene,  and  the  Comte  proceeded  to 
soliloquize  in  perfect  unconcern. 

"How  can  one  remain  indifferent  to  such  a  mixture  of 
life  and  peace !  Both  seem  to  harmonize  in  the  summer 
evening.  Everything  seems  to  bring  its  share  of  pleas- 
ure to  the  eye  and  to  give  a  finish  to  the  picture." 

The  road  now  turned  again  and  ran  along  a  railroad 
track,  following  with  it  the  thousand  curves  and  twinings 
of  the  river.  On  the  right  arose  far  above  our  heads 
hills  covered  with  villas  and  their  surrounding  parks. 
The  railway  crossed  our  road  and  was  lost  in  a  forest 
of  high  trees,  and  we  in  our  turn  followed  the  banks 
of  the  Indre.  The  soft  shades  of  the  evening  grew  softer 
as  the  sun  fell  toward  the  western  horizon,  and  cast  a 
myriad  of  blood-red  shafts  in  all  directions,  to  glimmer 
for  a  moment  and  then  fade  into  nothingness.  A  quaint 
old  mill  appeared,  its  busy  wheel  now  resting  from 
the  labors  of  the  day,  and  the  departing  rays  fell  on  it, 
lighting  the  old  battered  walls  with  golden  hue.  The 
valley  grew  more  wide,  more  fertile  and  more  peaceful 
still  as  we  pushed  on.  At  last  the  first  houses  of  the 
place  that  we  had  come  so  far  to  reach  began  to  show 
themselves,  surrounded  by  their  neatly-finished  gardens. 
The  patches  of  ground  became  shallow,  the  houses 
more  numerous.  Soon  the  road  was  crowded  on  either 
side. 

As  we  proceeded  we  could  see  on  our  left,  though  yet 
in  the  distance,  a  high,  dismantled  tower.  Beside  it 
stood  the  remains  of  what  was  once  an  important  feudal 
castle.  It  rose  high  above  the  houses,  high  above  the 
trees  on  the  hill;  and  on  the  very  summit  of  its  bat- 
tlements there  stood  out  against  the  sky  a  gigantic 
statue  in  bronze  which  caught  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  and 
flashed  them  down  upon  the  valley  and  its  village.  It 
was  a  statue  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  her  arms  outstretched 
264 


FROM    CHKNONCKAU     TO    A /.  A  Y 

as  if  to  bless  or  to  protect  the  souls  gathered  at  her  feet 
— a  fitting  climax  to  imposing  walls. 

"Show  me  the  man  who  could  remain  indifferent  to 
such  an  evening  or  to  such  a  scene, "'  the  Comte  exclaimed, 
in  ecstasy.  And  I  awaited  another  rhapsody  from  his 
reflective  nature.  "How  to  describe  the  effect  of  this 
twilight,  this  strange  mauve  color  on  everything,  left  by 
the  vanishing  sun!  The  stars  seem  waiting  to  appear, 
and,  as  if  impatient,  one  faint  twinkle  will  show  itself  and 
then  cease  to  be,  as  if  called  back  from  whence  it  came. 
How  to  describe  the  wonderful  peace  which  there  is  upon 
everything,  the  tranquil  joy  which  seems  to  be  the  embodi- 
ment of  this  beautiful  valley!  One  black  spot  only  seems 
to  show  in  relief  against  the  doubtful  coloring.  It  is  that 
statue,  colossal,  striking,  fearful  almost,  though  at  the 
same  time  it  is  soothing,  and  filled  with  a  wonderful 
peace.  She  seems  to  tell  the  legend  of  her  being  to  us; 
telling  it  in  a  silence  more  eloquent  than  words  could 
be." 

"How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  rhapsodize  over 
this  scene?"'  I  inquired.  "Do  you  not  think  that  a  dinner 
would  be  more  to  the  point  after  our  long  tramp?" 

"There  is  time  for  poetry  as  well  as  food,"  the  Comte 
replied,  laconically.  But  I  feared  his  ardor  was  a  little 
dampened,  for  he  followed  me  in  silence  over  a  long 
stone  bridge  of  the  eighteenth  centurj-,  to  the  hotel  at  its 
further  end, — the  hotel,  that  paradise  for  any  one 
who  is  not  especially  fond  of  long  walks  and  who  has  just 
accomplished  his  twelve  lieues  with  some  difficulty ! 

"Hotel,  dinner  and  bed.  Dios  gracias!"  I  exclaimed, 
as  we  halted  at  the  door,  notwithstanding  the  stem  lack 
of  sympathy  in  my  companion. 

A  fat  gentleman,  with  a  fat  wife  on  one  side  and  a  still 
fatter  dog  upon  the  other,  was  occupying  the  whole  of  the 
doorway.  The  Comte  addressed  the  former  in  the  most 
delightful  of  French  manners: 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  T 


■         1 

r .  T 


Y .  T 


"Have  you  any  rooms?" 

No  answer  whatever. 

The  Comte  repeated:  "Have  you  any  rooms?  And  a 
dinner,  and  a  bath,  and  a " 

But  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  for  the  fat  gentle- 
man, the  fat  lady  and  the  still  fatter  dog  all  suddenly 
assumed  a  very  angry  look,  and  turning  their  backs  upon 
u&,  they  regained  the  further  end  of  the  large  vestibule 
in  haughty  silence.  And  we,  poor,  tired,  mistaken  pedes- 
trians were  left  standing  in  the  road  before  the  door. 

One,  two,  three  moments  of  anxiety  ensued  and  then  a 
deep  "voila,"  followed  by  other  "voilas"  in  different 
notes,  announced  the  true  master  of  the  hotel,  who 
appeared  followed  by  his  wife,  who  in  turn  was  followed 
by  her  daughter,  holding  a  tiny  cat  at  the  end  of  a  blue 
string,  followed  finally  by  the  maid.  Later,  between  the 
courses  of  our  dinner,  we  learned  that  this  last  lady  was 
called  Juliette,  "et  qu'elle  aimait  les  petits  jeunes  gens 
meme  quant  ils  ne  I'aimaient  pas." 

"Have  you  any  rooms?"  we  inquired.  "Two,  if  you 
please." 

"Oh,  yes,  messieurs.  In  fact,  no.  But  we  have  one, 
monsieur,  with  two,  yes,  three  beds,  in  it.  We  have 
often  slept  four  in  this  room.  Ces  messieurs  will  be  per- 
fectly comfortable.  To  tell  the  truth,  we  have  within  our 
walls  a  Baron,  his  wife  and  his  dog,  and  we  have  given 
them  all  our  best  rooms." 

So  we  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves,  after  a  good 
deal  of  talking  and  bargaining,  with  two  miserable  little 
rooms,  which  were  finally  discovered  to  be  unoccupied. 

"Well,  at  least  you  will  let  us  have  plenty  of  water  and 
soap?" 

"Oh,  messieurs,  the  water  and  soaps  have  all  been  given 
to  Monsieur  le  Baron,  his  wife  and  his  dog." 

"Then  let  us  have  dinner  at  once,"  we  cried,  in 
despair. 

266 


i .  i 


T .  i 


( .  ( 


T .  T 


FROM    CHKNONCEAU    TO    AZAY 


Y .  V 


T .  i 


T .  S 


i .  V 


>d^- 


"Very  well,  messieurs,  in  half  an  hour,  for  Monsieur  Ic 
Baron— etc.,  must  have  theirs  first." 

"Well,  when  it  is  ready,  have  it  served  in  the  garden 
near  the  river." 

"Bien,  messieurs." 

We  groped  our  way  down  a  rickety  flight  of  stairs  in 
complete  darkness,  and  at  last  after  many  bumps  and 
scratches  from  unseen  obstacles  we  reached  the  garden. 
We  were  repaid  for  our  trouble,  though  I  must  confess 
we  indulged  in  some  rather  uncomplimentary  reflections 
upon  the  Baron,  his  wife  and  his  dog,  who  were  enjoying 
their  dinner  while  we  were  obliged  to  wait.  Our  table 
was  laid  on  the  very  edge  of  the  river,  and  as  we  sat 
down  to  wait,  everj'thing  around  seemed  to  have  assumed 
a  pinkish  hue  in  the  evening  shade,  a  pink  of  many 
tones.  The  stone  bridge  in  front  was  the  brightest 
object  in  the  landscape,  and  its  heavy  arches  were  so 
clearly  reflected  in  the  silent  water  that  it  seemed  as  if 
another  bridge  were  there  below.  The  sky,  pink  also, 
was  reflected,  now  showing  the  first  tiny  stars  appearing 
in  the  heavens.  The  boat,  tied  by  a  chain  to  the  willow 
near  us,  was  pink,  and  the  long  arms  of  the  Virginia 
creepers  which  stretched  from  tree  to  tree  and  caressed 
the  air  in  the  gentle  breeze  were  more  pink  than  green. 
A  shadow  with  the  same  rose  shade  upon  it  passed  over 
the  bridge,  stopped  near  the  centre  and  leaned  against 
the  parapet.  Another  shadow  appeared,  and  passing  the 
one  upon  the  bridge  it  vanished  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river.  Still  a  third  shadow  stopped  near  the  first,  and 
leaned  over  the  stone  beside  it.  The  two  drew  closer  and 
closer. 

"Oh,  whata  harmony  of  pinks!"  I  was  about  to  e.xclaim, 

as  the  two  shadows  seemed  to  be  lost  in  one;    but  the 

night  had  come   and  the  pink  had   turned  to  black — to 

the  darkness  of  night. 

"Quick,  the  coffee  of  Monsieur  le  Baron!     Fly  for  the 

267 


i .  T 


T.T 


V/i 


V .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

shawl  of  Madame  la  Baronne!"  cried  a  voice  from  the 
hotel,  and  our  picture  was  broken  by  the  harsh  accents  dis- 
turbing the  calm  of  our  surroundings.  The  "splash, 
splash,  splash"  of  the  eggs  which  the  cook  was  beating  for 
an  omelette  and  the  faint  "mew"  of  the  cat  at  the  end  of 
her  blue  ribbon  were  the  only  other  sounds  we  heard.  But 
between  these  distractions  there  was  time  for  thought  and 
enjoyment  of  a  simple  kind,  but  little  inclination  to  talk. 

"What  softness,  what  peace!"  exclaimed  the  Comte. 
"To  disturb  it  seems  almost  a  sin."  But  the  sin  came 
before  the  words  were  even  out  of  his  mouth,  and  from 
Juliette,  too. 

"Aie,  aie,  aie!  I  burn  myself!  I  burn  myself!"  she 
cried,  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

"Mon  dieu,  mon  dieu,  what  could  be  the  matter!" 

"Oh,  messieurs,  the  chicken  was  so  hot  I  burned  the 
tips  of  my  lovely  little  fingers." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?" 

"Well,  that  is  certainly  enough,  isn't  it?" 

"Ah,  indeed!" 

"You  know,  I  come  from  Paris,"  continued  Juliette, 
unabashed  by  the  cold  reception  her  advances  received. 
"I  like  Paris.  And  ces  petits  jeunes  gens?  They  come 
from  Paris  too?  I  know  they  do.  I  know  they  do. 
They  are  pleased  with  the  dinner?" 

Yes,  they  were  pleased  with  the  dinner,  better  pleased 
with  the  dinner,  perhaps,  than  with  its  service.  Juliette 
had  already  begun  to  be  annoying. 

"It  is  beautiful  weather  this  evening.  These  messieurs 
are  travelling  on  bicycles?" 

"No,  on  foot." 

"Oh,  what  a  fiby,  fiby,  fib!  I  don't  believe  that.  I 
come  from  Paris,  you  know.     I  don't  believe  that." 

Well,  it  was  immaterial  to  us  whether  she  believed  it 
or  not,  and  taking  the  hint  at  length,  our  Parisian  wise- 
acre left  us  in  peace,  though  the  echo  of  her  voice  from 
268 


OiS      ^i 


FROM    CIIKNONCEAU   TO    AZAY 

the  kitchen  brought  back  to  us  the  words  "fiby,  fiby,  fib," 
in  every  note  of  the  scale. 

"Such  creatures  are  provokinj;,"  I  remarked. 

"Yes,  very,"  replied  my  friend,  "especially  when  they 
are  not  pretty." 

"Juliette,  Juliette,  Juliette!"  we  could  still  hear  from 
the  hotel.  "Quick,  a  glass  of  water  for  Monsieur  le 
Baron.     He  wishes  to  retire." 

"And  you  speak  of  our  love  of  titles,"  I  exclaimed,  turn- 
ing to  the  Comte,  who  was  as  much  amused  as  I  at  our 
little  experience.  "Really,  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  com- 
pared with  yours.  Since  we  arrived  at  this  wretched 
hotel  we  have  heard  nothing  but  'Monsieur  le  Baron,' 
'Madame  la  Baronne,'  and  that  infernal  dog  of  theirs.  If 
I  only  could  see  it  I  should  be  tempted  to  drown  it  in  the 
river." 

"I  never  knew  a  Baron  to  create  so  much  excitement  in 
a  little  place,"  replied  the  Comte.  "Let  us  try  and  find 
out  of  what  sort  of  stuff  this  Baron  is  made." 

We  left  the  table  and  ascended  the  rickety  flight  of 
stairs  once  more  to  reach  the  vestibule  above.  The  next 
minute  we  found  ourselves  face  to  face  with  the  very  fat 
gentleman  whom  we  had  met  at  the  door  on  our  arrival. 
And  the  hotel  keeper  was  actually  addressing  him  as  Mon- 
sieur le  Baron. 

"What  a  strange  resemblance!"  exclaimed  my  friend. 
"If  he  were  not  a  baron  I  should  say  that  this  was  my 
tailor.     The  two  are  identically  alike." 

"Perhaps  he  may  be  both,"  I  suggested. 

"Oh,  an  idea!"  returned  the  Comte.  "Wait  there,  and 
I  will  try  and  see." 

And  walking  up  to  the  fat  gentleman,  who  was  air- 
ing himself  once  more  in  front  of  the  door,  he  addressed 
him  thus:  "How  do  you  do.  Monsieur  F ?" 

The  poor  fat  gentleman  was  so  taken  aback  that  he 
turned  green  in  the  face;  Madame  la  Baronne  was 
369 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  T 


obliged  to  sit  down ;  and  the  dog,  hearing  his  master 
called  by  his  true  name,  took  the  Comte  for  a  customer, 
and  became  very  affectionate. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  have  met  you  here,"  the  Comte  con- 
tinued, "for  I  wrote  you  only  yesterday  to  tell  you  that 
the  last  coat  you  sent  me  does  not  fit  at  all." 

"And  this  is  why,"  returned  the  false  Baron,  in  high 
dudgeon,  "this  is  why  Monsieur  le  Comte  has  tried  a  new 
one,  another  tailor  who  fits  him  even  worse.  Good 
night.  Monsieur  le  Comte.  Chere  Baronne,  it  is  time  to 
retire. ' ' 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  I,  in  great  amusement,  as  the 
injured  tailor,  his  wife  and  his  dog,  all  swept  away,  "I 
fear  that,  after  all,  this  false  Baron  got  the  better  of  the 
true  Comte.  But,  at  all  events,  it  was  verj-  amusing  to 
see  his  surprise  when  you  accosted  him  by  his  right  name. 
I  think  I  shall  follow  his  example  and  say  good  night,  as  I 
am  tired  out." 


r ,  T 


V .  V 


270 


CHAPTER    XII 


i .  V 


AZAT-LE-RIDEAU 

It  cannot  be  said  with  truth  that  we  were  sorry  to 
leave  Montbazon  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning — even 
at  six  o'clock,  and  in  spite  of  my  natural  tendencies  to 
begin  the  day  as  late  as  possible. 

The  rain  had  been  falling  over  night,  and  the  roads 
were  still  muddy  as  we  threaded  our  way  through  the 
village  streets  and  out  into  the  country.  We  found  our- 
selves once  more  beside  the  banks  of  the  river  Indre, 
losing  sight  of  it  only  when  the  valley  grew  wider  and 
the  river  itself  seemed  tossed  first  one  side  then  another 
by  the  wood-covered  hills  which  hemmed  it  in.  The 
powder  magazine  of  le  Ripault  was  left  behind  us,  and 
soon  the  pointed  towers  of  a  chateau  appeared  upon  the 
top  of  a  small  hill,  half  enveloped  in  the  mist.  It  was 
the  chateau  de  Cond<5,  which  is  at  present  owned  by  a 
member  of  the  government.  There  was  something  about 
it  which  reminded  me  of  Chaumont,  though  if  I  had  exam- 
ined it  I  should  undoubtedly  have  found  it  very  different. 

By  eight  o'clock  we  were  at  Monts,  a  pretty  little  town 
with  quaint  streets  and  an  unusually  neat  auberge.  Here 
we  rested  our  tired  limbs  after  our  early  walk.  The 
porch,  which  gave  upon  the  street,  was  as  private  as  one's 
garden,  so  few  passers  were  there.  Indeed,  it  was  so 
pleasant  that  we  took  our  first  ddjeuncr  there,  and  we 
were  sorry  to  leave  these  quaint  surroundings  where 
vines  clung  beside  the  houses  and  where  a  tiny  stream 
ran  near  by. 

We  trudged  on  again  through  a  soft  mist,  which 
caressed  our  faces  and  which  gave  to  everj'thing  around 
»7' 


V .  4 


( .  H 


'( .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


us  a  silver}'  tint.  The  valley  widened;  and  from  the 
summit  of  another  hill  we  could  see  the  remains  of  a 
Renaissance  "Gentilhommifere, "  now  converted  into 
farm  houses,  though  none  the  less  artistic  for  the  change. 
The  deep  waters  of  the  river  flow  here  over  a  treacherous 
bed  of  grasses  and  weeds  that  grow  to  a  great  length, 
following  the  current  of  the  river  as  if  they  would  run 
away  with  it.  The  river  itself  looks  not  unlike  a  beauti- 
ful green  serpent  stealing  its  way  through  a  soft  carpet  of 
some  lighter  shade.  Little  herds  of  cattle  watched  by 
a  peasant  woman  with  her  white  bonnet  and  her  knit- 
ting— a  pair  of  woolen  stockings  for  the  winter — dotted 
the  meadows  in  spots.  Frequently  we  would  catch  a 
glimpse  now  of  a  natural  cave  dug  out  of  the  side  of  a 
cliff,  now  of  the  towers  of  some  chateau  showing 
through  a  curtain  of  foliage,  which  suggested  Azay-le- 
Rideau  and  the  curtain  of  green  from  which  it  takes  its 
name.  Now  there  would  appear  only  a  small  tower 
perched  like  an  eagle's  nest  upon  the  top  of  a  clifif.  And 
yet  we  were  ever  in  the  valley  where  we  had  been  since 
the  day  before.     All  was  still  calm,  sad  even. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  very  sad,"  broke  in  the  Comte.  "But  if  a 
plateau  like  the  one  which  we  passed  over  yesterday 
gives  to  the  traveller  a  feeling  of  desolation  and  of  exile, 
at  least  it  stimulates  the  physical  activity.  It  awakens  in 
him  a  desire  to  hurry  his  forward  course;  and  he  hastens 
toward  the  unknown  horizon  in  the  hope  of  finding  there 
the  peace  and  calm  which  his  soul  longs  for." 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "But  let  us  suppose  that  the  horizon 
so  much  longed  for  discloses  to  him  even  a  luxurious 
valley  where  waters  flow  and  where  the  trees,  finding 
their  necessarj-  nourishment,  spread  on  all  sides  their 
vigorous  branches  covered  with  heavy  leaves,  what  will 
be  the  result?  We  have  it  before  us.  It  is  only  sadness. 
If  the  eye  meets  naught  but  harmony  in  coloring,  from 
the  silver  gray  of  the  birch  to  the  soft  green  of  the  elm 


AZAY-LE-RIDKAU 

or  of  the  indented  leaf  of  the  oak,  the  result  is  still  sad- 
ness. If  the  only  sounds  in  this  symphony  of  nature 
which  reach  the  car  are  the  footsteps  of  the  cattle,  half 
drowned  in  the  long  grass,  or  the  distant  cry  of  the  shep- 
herd, or  the  monotonous  splash  of  a  waterfall  near  by;  if 
from  far  off  the  echo  reaches  us  of  the  noise  of  a  wheel, 
another  wail  as  it  beats  the  water, — what  is  the  effect  of 
it  all,  if  it  be  not  sadness?" 

"And  why  should  it  be  so?"  asked  my  friend.  "Why 
is  it  that  that  which  we  so  longed  for,  and  which  we 
thought  would  be  all  sunshine  and  happiness,  has  proved 
to  be  but  a  delusion,  sad  but  none  the  less  beautiful?" 

"Because  it  is  the  perfection  of  calm,"  I  answered. 
"And  because  our  soul,  as  it  passes  through  this  wonder- 
ful place,  after  the  warfare  of  the  plain  is  not  content. 
It  would  have  more.  It  would  rise  above  this,  and  taste 
the  delirium  of  happiness  of  which  it  sometimes  dreams 
and  which  it  feels  to  be  so  near  yet  just  beyond  its  grasp. 
The  beauty  of  nature  seems  to  tantalize  it.  The  con- 
tented state  is  just  beyond,  and  it  cannot  reach  it.  Thus 
a  physical  weariness,  a  mental  discouragement  ensues. 
And  we  call  it  sadness." 

"I  feel  it  also,  ■  said  I.  "It  is  the  effect  of  this  wealth 
of  nature. 

"Look  yonder  at  the  river,  or  rather  upon  its  opposite 
bank,  and  see  the  two  men  and  the  peasant  girl  with 
them.  They  are  dragging  a  long  stick  behind  them  in 
the  water.  They  seem  to  be  searching  for  something 
which  has  fallen  into  the  river.  There  it  is — they  have 
found  it  while  I  was  speaking.  It  is  something  that  is 
dead — a  dog,  a  shepherd's  dog  perhaps — an  animal  of 
some  kind.  Come,  let  us  go,  for  everything  here  seems 
so  tinged  with  sadness.  I  long  to  shake  off  this  mood. 
Shall  we  soon  reach  the  town  of  Azay?" 

"We  are  almost  there,"  ray  companion  returned,  and 
some  ten  minutes  later  he  added:  "Let  us  cast  oflf  all 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN    TOURAINE 

thoughts  of  sadness  or  dreariness  in  the  midst  of  wind- 
swept plains  and  valleys,  for  here  they  have  come  to  an 
end.  This  valley  is  divided  by  a  curtain  of  thick  trees, 
behind  which  some  high  roofs  and  pointed  spires  are  to 
be  seen.  It  is  the  chateau  of  Azay-le-Rideau.  Here  are 
the  first  houses  of  the  village. ' ' 

In  another  moment  we  had  entered  the  town,  by  the 
high  road  which  runs  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other. 
Azay  is  built  upon  the  side  of  a  hill,  and  it  slopes  down 
to  the  gates  of  the  chateau  which  lies  in  the  very  bed  of 
the  river  Indre.  The  houses  are  clean  and  well  cared 
for.  Flowers  blossom  on  the  iron  balconies,  and  gray 
stone  gables  shade  the  sidewalks.  An  ordinary  wall  of 
white  stone  and  plaster  and  a  still  more  ordinary  looking 
gate  enclose  a  straight  avenue  of  rather  inferior  horse- 
chestnut  trees.  But  if  we  turn  into  this  unpretentious 
entrance  and  pursue  the  avenue  for  one  or  two  hundred 
yards,  we  shall  see  before  us  at  its  further  end  the  gem, 
yes,  the  diamond,  of  the  French  Renaissance.  Azay-le- 
Rideau  rises  from  a  setting  which  at  first  seems  unworthy 
of  such  a  treasure  house.  But,  imperceptibly,  this 
impression  fades  away,  as  we  reach  the  round  courtyard 
and  pass  through  a  second  gateway  with  pillars  of  stone 
and  flanked  by  two  pavilions  of  the  purest  Louis  XIII 
architecture.  The  lines  of  these  pavilions  are  regular 
and  sober,  and  half  veiled  by  jasmine  and  Virginia 
creepers  stretching  their  long  arms  in  all  directions. 
Their  high  sharp  roofs  spring  as  it  were  from  a  bed  of 
verdure  and  flowers.  There  is  a  wonderful  charm,  as 
well  as  an  artistic  flavor  about  the  whole  surroundings. 
Instinctively  our  thoughts  run  back  to  Valen^ay,  and  we 
are  tempted  to  contrast  the  two  pavilions  there  with  these 
before  us. 

As  we  turn  our  eyes  toward  the  beautiful  pile  of  stones, 
the  chateau  itself  rises  out  of  the  bed  of  the  river  in  the 
shape  of  the  letter  L.     It  is  built  around  two  sides  of  a 
274 


A'A.W  -  1 


A  Z  A  Y  -  L  K  -  R  1  D  K  A  U 

square,  each  end  being  fliinked  by  two  round  towers 
which  arise  in  graceful  proportions;  the  four  spires  of 
their  pointed  roofs  strike  the  sky  in  perfect  symmetry. 
The  wing  on  the  right,  with  its  two  towers,  is  mirrored 
in  the  unruffled  waters  of  a  moat,  and  seems  almost  to  be 
without  a  beginning  and  without  an  end.  We  cross  a 
wooden  bridge,  in  order  to  reach  the  courtyard,  and  there 
study  the  architecture  of  the  chateau  in  detail.  The 
bridge  is  hung  with  creepers  of  all  kinds,  twining  around 
the  beams  and  pillars,  and  falling  toward  the  river  in 
long  garlands.  Beneath  it  still  runs  the  Indre,  silent  and 
swift  and  dark,  although  here  it  is  but  a  tiny  stream, 
turned  and  twisted  long  since  to  encircle  the  chateau  and 
to  beautify  its  park. 

In  the  background  the  village  church  half  borders  upon 
the  park.  It  is  enshrouded  in  laurel  trees  and  weeping 
willows,  so  that  we  see  only  a  portion  of  its  wall,  the 
comer  of  a  tower,  or  a  chance  detail  between  the  leaves. 
The  eyes  wander  from  branch  to  branch,  from  flower  to 
flower,  like  the  bird,  looking  back  on  what  has  been  left 
behind,  and  hesitating  before  the  beauty  and  the  grace  of 
that  which  stands  before  them.  They  rest  with  delight 
upon  the  great  wing  of  the  chateau  and  upon  the  long 
terrace  to  the  left,  and  they  wander  back  with  pleasure  to 
the  river. 

The  most  striking  feature  of  the  principal  facade  is  the 
motif  of  the  grand  staircase,  which  rises  to  the  high  roof 
and  which  ends  in  an  architectural  performance  of  such 
grace  in  detail  and  of  such  beauty  of  ensemble  that  it 
reminds  us  of  Oxford  in  England. 

Unlike  the  Chateau  de  Blois,  the  staircase  here  is  not 
an  exterior  one;  it  is  not  open,  nor  is  it  circular.  But 
though  it  is  flat  in  appearance  and  lacking  in  that 
wonderful  vitality  which  seems  to  give  to  the  staircase  of 
Blois  its  greatest  charm,  this  one  at  Azay-le-Rideau 
rivals  it  in  delicacy  of  carving,  in  the  perfection  of  its 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T ,  V 


T .  Y 


r .  s 


Y .  Y 


lines,  and  in  the  softening  shades  which  give  to  it  both 
poetry  and  romance.  A  series  of  windows,  one  above 
the  other,  beneath  which  are  the  two  doors  opening  upon 
the  court,  forms  the  backbone  of  the  architectural  motif, 
as  well  in  other  portions  of  the  chateau  as  here.  The 
unity  with  which  they  are  developed  into  a  climax  at  the 
central  point  is  perhaps  the  true  secret  of  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  Azay.  In  other  chateaiuc  of  the  Renaissance 
or  of  the  Mediaeval  period,  there  is  perhaps  one  corner, 
one  wing,  to  call  forth  praise  or  criticism.  We  find  a 
fraction  of  detail,  an  historical  point,  a  portion  of  the 
whole;  but  here,  as  in  no  other,  do  we  see  a  complete 
ensemble,  an  entire  chateau  as  it  should  be. 

Tiny  figures  stand  out  in  relief  from  ornamented  pilas- 
ters, or  from  columns  supporting  canopial  niches.  Above 
the  doors,  we  see  again — it  seems  more  delicately  carved 
that  ever  before — the  salamander  of  Frangois  beside  the 
ermine  of  Brittany.  Ornaments  of  every  kind  surround 
them  and  rise  around  the  windows  to  the  castle's 
roof.  The  artist  seems  fairly  to  have  exhausted  the  deli- 
cacy of  his  chisel,  as  well  as  the  fancies  of  his  imagina- 
tion. 

The  towers  on  the  left  are  smaller  than  those  upon  the 
right,  and  they  are  terminated  in  what  are  known  in 
France  as  "cues  de  lampes."  Three  sharply  outlined 
mouldings  divide  the  walls  at  each  stor)%  and  the  heavy 
cornices  above,  in  imitation  of  the  "machicoulis"  of  the 
Mediaeval  chateau,  run  round  the  edges  of  the  roof  like  a 
massive  chain.  They  are  broken,  here  and  there,  by  the 
heavy  windows  of  the  roof,  which  show  in  relief  against 
the  dark  and  rusted  slates.  Although  the  court  below  is 
barren  of  the  orange  trees  that  the  eye  has  learned  to 
expect  in  so  many  of  the  Renaissance  chateaux,  it  is  hardly 
noticeable  here.  For  there  is  everywhere  that  charm 
which  is  to  be  found  in  places  where  a  true  artist  has 
assisted  nature  to  fulfil  her  task,  and  where  the  result 
276 

i 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


AZAY-LK-RIDKAU 


T .  Y 


would  seem  to  have  been  fashioned  by  a  fairy's  hand. 
There  is  nothing  to  offend  tho  eye.  Colors  and  shades 
arc  in  harmony  one  with  another.  The  flowers  arc  of 
quaint  origin,  and  are  those  more  often  to  be  found  in 
old-fashioned  gardens.  The  parterres  and  shrubberies 
are  those  of  a  century  ago.  There  is  nothing  here  in 
tinselled  gold,  or  in  a  new  frame.  All  is  in  soft  taste. 
There  is  neither  the  overpowering  wealth  nor  the  show 
and  the  glitter  which  we  find  in  some  places.  Here  every- 
thing is  covered  with  a  cloak  of  mellowness  and  harmony 
which  time  alone  has  the  power  to  cast  over  it.  There  is 
something  which  speaks  unmistakably  of  distinction  and 
refinement,  something  which  would  never  shine  too 
brightly  nor  be  surrounded  by  too  much  wealth.  Indeed, 
we  might  say  in  conclusion  as  we  gaze  at  the  whole: 
"Here  is  something  at  last  which  is  more  than  beautiful. 
Here  is  something  which  is  almost  perfection." 


i .  T 


T .  1 


:imM 


i .  V 


As  we  cross  the  threshold  of  one  of  the  carved  oak 
doors,  the  staircase  appears  before  us  in  all  its  magnifi- 
cence. It  is  the  "chef  d'oeuvre"  of  all  the  Italian  stair- 
cases of  this  epoch.  It  is  better,  even,  than  those  of 
Cour  Chevemy  and  of  Chenonceau.  These  staircases,  of 
which  the  three  mentioned  are  the  best  examples,  were  a 
novelty  in  the  sixteenth  century.  They  were  brought 
from  Italy  to  take  the  place  of  the  circular  staircases 
which  preceded  them.  The  carving  of  this  at  Azay-le- 
Rideau  is  especially  worthy  of  our  notice.  Flowers, 
fruits,  statues,  animals,  monograms  and  heraldic 
emblems  are  placed  everywhere,  with  a  perfect  genius 
of  taste  in  their  arrangement. 

A  butler  ushers  us  into  a  dining-hall,  where  the  walls 
are  hung  with  many  interesting  paintings.  These  paint- 
ings form  but  a  small  portion  of  a  large  collection. 
There  are  in  all  six  hundred  and  fifty  pictures.  Two 
hundred  and  fifty  of  these  are  originals,  while  the  remaiu- 

3/7 


V .  T 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


ing  four  hundred  are  good  copies.  The  room  is  paved 
in  black  and  white  marble,  and  a  great  sideboard  bearing 
the  name  of  Jean  Goujon  almost  covers  one  side  of  the 
apartment. 

We  wander  on  from  one  apartment  to  another,  all  filled 
with  old  furniture  of  great  value — the  bed-chambers 
with  their  massive  four-posted  beds,  the  salons  with 
their  pictures  and  here  and  there  a  stone  chimney  that 
reminds  us  of  Blois  or  Chaumont,  follow  one  another  in 
successive  interest.  We  forget,  indeed,  a  faded  curtain 
or  a  piece  of  threadbare  carpet — the  only  signs  of  imper- 
fection in  the  chateau — in  the  beauty  of  their  surround- 
ings; the  only  feeling  which  survives  is  one  of  har- 
mony and  refinement. 

The  Comte  soon  began  to  express  his  satisfaction  at 
what  he  saw. 

"How  I  enjoy  these  thick  walls  and  these  windows  with 
their  lozenges  of  glass,  sometimes  beautifully  stained  in 
color!  They  allow  only  a  subdued  light  to  enter  or  to 
fall  upon  these  beautiful  pictures.  It  makes  one  feel  at 
rest  after  the  brilliant  restorations  of  the  other  chateau. 
There  is  something  indescribable  here,  something  to  be 
found  only  in  the  oldest  chateaux.  These  alone  are  the 
embodiment  of  a  true  delicacy  of  taste,  and  they  uncon- 
sciously permeate  everj'thing  about  them  with  its  subtle 
charm,  so  difficult,  so  impossible  even,  to  acquire  other- 
wise, and  yet  so  unmistakable  when  found." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  I  replied,  still  enjoying  the  details 
of  our  surroundings  and  agreeing  with  my  friend's 
enthusiasm,  "it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  true  of  the  con- 
servative element  all  over  the  world.  Distinction, 
elegance,  breeding,  of  all  of  which  we  are  fond  and  of 
which  historical  chateaux  and  beautiful  surroundings  are 
but  the  offsprings,  must  be  acquired  with  centuries  of  blood 
to  add  to  them.  Time  and  nature  must  be  allowed  their 
hand  also.  Such  things  cannot  ever  be  really  acquired. 
278 


AZAY-Li:-R11)KAU 


They  may  be  in  part,  after  much  labor;  but  those  who 
strive  for  them  will  always  find  that  they  lack  the  very 
kernel  of  that  of  which  they  WDuld  be  the  whole."  And 
we  turned  to  admire  a  collection  of  Cloucts  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  to  peep  out  at  the  view  beyond  the  windows, 
with  their  heavy  curtains  of  green  velvet,  stamped  with 
gold  fleurs-de-lis. 

To  describe  the  pictures,  the  enamels,  the  wood  carvings, 
the  library  of  historical  volumes,  would  alone  take  up  an 
entire  chapter.  We  may  only  attempt  to  enter,  and  that, 
even,  in  a  light  and  somewhat  superficial  manner,  into 
the  atmosphere  of  this  marvelous  little  chateau  of  the 
Renaissance.  In  brief,  let  us  say  that  Azay-lc-Rideau  is 
one  of  the  verj*  few  of  the  "historical  monuments"  which, 
until  within  a  few  years,  still  remained  in  the  hands  of  its 
ancient  masters.  Some  chateaux  have  passed  into  the 
hands  of  the  government;  others  have  been  bought  and 
restored,  in  modem  taste,  by  wealthy  financiers  or 
foreigners;  but  a  few,  like  the  one  before  us,  have 
remained  as  they  were  originally.  They  are  like  reli- 
quaries in  which  centuries  have  heaped  up  their  marvels 
of  artistic  beauty;  and  those  who  have  inherited  these 
guard  them  as  the  last  remains  of  bygone  greatness. 
And  this  is  why  those  who  love  them  cling  to  them  also, 
even  as  the  shipwrecked  mariner  might  to  a  falling  spar. 
We  leave  such  places  with  a  strange  feeling  of  regret,  as 
if  they  were  to  be  sold  the  next  year,  the  next  month, 
as  if  they  might  be  destroyed  and  we  should  never  see 
them  again. 

Azay-le-Ridcau,  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  of  the 
chateaux  of  Touraine  or  its  surrounding  country,  brings 
to  us  the  life  and  the  atmosphere  of  bygone  days, 
which  still  linger  through  the  present  centurj".  And 
with  it  all  there  is  so  much  poetry  and  romance  lurking 
about  the  architecture,  filled  with  the  Italian  influence, 
and  its  surroundings,  less  perfect  than  the  chateau  itself 
279 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

but  still  full  of  charm,  that  our  fancy  is  drawn  to  it 
irresistibly. 

As  we  leave  the  chateau  behind  us  and  walk  out  into 
the  park,  across  stone  bridges  and  by  the  river  that  is 
here  smooth  as  a  mirror  and  there  rushing  along  at  head- 
long pace,  I  am  tempted  to  tell  my  companion  of  the 
impressions  made  upon  me  by  Azay-le-Rideau. 

"The  park  would  seem  to  be  scarcely  in  keeping  with 
the  chateau  and  its  gardens,"  I  say  to  theComte;  "it 
seems  almost  level,  and  rather  small." 

"It  is  indeed,"  my  friend  replies.  "But  this  beautiful 
little  river,  which  we  have  accompanied  so  long  and 
which  runs  across  it  like  so  many  winding  paths,  gives  it 
a  freshness  that  is  almost  like  an  eternal  spring." 

"It  seems  to  be  filled  with  people,  as  if  its  master 
were  verj'  hospitable,"  I  add. 

"Yes;  it  is  open  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village 
on  Sunday  afternoon ;  and  they  are  allowed  to  wander 
amongst  the  flowers,  as  if  they  belonged  to  them.  No 
one  would  ever  touch  one.  They  regard  them  as  almost 
sacred,  so  that  these  privileges  are  enjoyed  by  them 
without  abuse.  And  toward  sunset,  if  one  were  to  pass 
through  the  walks  and  alleys  on  the  way  home  after  a 
quiet  stroll,  a  single  form  might  be  seen  walking  quietly 
near  the  chateau.  It  is  that  of  an  elderly  gentle- 
man of  dignified  appearance.  He  wears  a  martial  air, 
as  if  he  were  an  officer,  a  soldier.  He  seems  inter- 
ested in  everything.  Often  he  turns  to  look  back  at  the 
chateau.  He  glances  at  its  lofty  towers  with  their  grace- 
ful finishings  in  'cues-de-lampes. '  Two  of  them  have 
been  lately  repaired  and  seem  especially  to  attract  his 
.-ittention.  Now  he  pauses  to  inspect  with  a  lover's  eye 
the  beds  of  flowers  and  the  trees.  He  seems  anxious  that 
all  should  be  in  order. 

"There  is  no  one  with  him.  He  is  attended  only  by  a 
terrier,  or  bull -dog,  which  he  calls  often  to  his  side, 
280 


AZAY-l.K-RlDKAU 

as  if  for  company.  And  as  the  peasants  pass  him  by  they 
bow  respectfully;  for  it  is  'Monsieur  Ic  Marquis,"  and 
they  are  very  fond  of  him*  Living  alone  in  the 
^'reat  chateau,  he  has  bestowed  upon  it  the  love  and  the 
wealth  of  an  artist  and  a  father.  When  he  inherited  it 
from  his  own  father  and  frrcat-grandfather,  the  interior 
was  almost  bare.  But  year  after  year  of  taste  and  care 
have  made  it,  at  last,  a  perfect  museum  of  artistic  and 
historical  ornaments." 

How  long  we  remained  thus  gossiping  about  the 
chateau  before  us,  I  cannot  say.  But  the  garden  bench 
was  so  comfortable  and  the  babble  of  the  water  behind 
us  so  musical  in  its  passing  notes,  that  we  lingered  in- 
toxicated by  the  beauty  of  this  exquisite  picture. 

"In  the  midst  of  it  all,  however,"  I  exclaimed,  "one 
cannot  but  think  of  the  uncertain  fate  of  such  a  chateau 
in  France.  In  another  generation  even,  a  fortune  which 
now  keeps  it  what  it  is  may  be  divided,  and  then,  what 
may  become  of  it  we  cannot  say.  It  may  be  sold.  The 
lands  may  be  cut  up.  And  if  the  estate  should  be  a  large 
one,  the  chateau,  as  you  say,  often  goes  for  little  or  noth- 
ing. It  goes,  and  perhaps  into  the  hands  of  those  who 
are  unworthy  of  possessing  such  a  jewel  or  such  an 
heritage." 

"Come,  let  us  go,"  said  the  Comte,  rising.  "Let  us 
leave,  while  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  anything  so  beau- 
tiful as  Azay-le-Rideau  is  still  fresh  within  us.  Let  us 
enjoy  it  as  it  is,  and  not  cloud  the  moment  by  thinking 
of  what  it  may  be  in  a  few  years.  There  is  a  little 
chateau,  not  far  from  here,  where  de  Balzac  used  to  live ; 
and  we  must  visit  it  before  we  leave  the  town." 

So  we  wandered  out  through  the  court  of  honor,  over 
the  vine-grown  bridge,  beneath  the  avenue  of  horse-chest- 

•The  Chateau  of  Aiay-lc-Rideau,  at   the  time  when  the  above 
passage  was  written,  was  owned  b>'  the  Marquis  de  Biencourt. 
3S1 


\t#^fe%^ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


nut  trees,  out  again  to  the  road;    and  the  curtain  had 
risen  and  fallen  upon  Azay-le-Rideau. 

The  same  afternoon — it  was  the  15th  of  August,  I 
remember,  the  feast  of  the  Assumption,  and  one  of  the 
four  great  holidays  of  France — we  started  out  on  our 
walk  to  the  little  chateau  of  Sachd.  It  is  situated  in  a 
pleasant  country  about  four  miles  from  Azay.  This 
piece  of  information  we  received  from  the  master  of  the 
hotel,  a  jolly  little  man,  not  unlike  a  pudding  in  appear- 
ance, whose  neck  had  long  since  disappeared  between  an 
apoplectic-looking  pair  of  shoulders.  As  we  started  out, 
we  amused  ourselves  in  speculating  how  long  it  would  be 
before  his  whole  head  was  telescoped  by  his  bod)'.  For 
the  process  seemed  not  unlikely. 

The  little  town  of  Sach6  is  built,  like  Azay,  upon 
the  edge  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  river.  Its  only  street 
winds  up  a  rather  steep  incline,  and  the  entrance  to 
the  "gentilhommi^re" — it  could  scarcely  be  called  a 
chateau — is  perched  upon  a  turning  of  the  road.  Oppo- 
site to  it  stands  the  church,  which  is  a  good  fragment  of 
Romanesque  architecture.  As  we  approached,  the  bells 
were  ringing  merrily,  answering  one  another,  whi.spering, 
singing  and  talking;  now  in  solo,  now  in  a  duet,  as  loud  as 
they  both  could  peal.  The  vespers  were  but  just  over,  and 
the  last  of  the  procession  could  be  seen  marching  through 
the  street.  White  silk  banners,  embroidered  with  gold, 
waved  and  glittered  in  the  air.  At  a  distance  they 
seemed  like  swans  beating  their  wings.  Four  little  girls, 
dressed  in  white  and  crowned  with  roses,  held  tightly  the 
ribbons  of  the  banners.  And  as  I  looked  at  them  their 
faces  were  filled  with  a  childish  pride  and  joy ;  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  the  angels  about  the  Virgin  of 
Murillo.  Following  these  came  a  group  of  boys  holding 
a  red  velvet  banner,  also  embroidered  in  gold.  After 
these   came   the   whole    village,    two   by   two,    and    the 


282 


•  9 

Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


A  Z  A  ■\-  -  L  E  -  R  1  D  K  A  U 


"chantrcs"  in  white  surplices  and  the  choir  boys  in  red 
and  white,  and  lastly  the  CutC,  his  gray  locks  flowinjj  down 
to  his  robes  of  while  and  K^ld.  The  litany  of  the  Viryin 
was  being  sung,  and  the  bells  were  joining  their  voices  to 
those  of  the  village.  A  long  line  of  devout  Catholics 
wound  on,  down  the  hill,  like  an  undulating  stream  that 
catches  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  and  the  sky,  singing  an 
unknown  song  as  it  rushes  over  pebbles  and  stones,  or 
silent  as  it  is  lost  in  groves  and  gardens. 

Sach^  is  of  no  importance  whatever  in  itself.  But  its 
situation  is  charming,  and  there  is  a  rustic  peace  about 
the  building  and  its  park,  which  attracts  the  gentler  side 
of  one's  nature.  There  is  also  the  interest  which  the  home 
of  Balzac  must  necessarily  gather  about  itself.  In  this 
garden,  perhaps  where  we  stand,  he  has  probably  reposed 
and  gained  inspiration  from  the  view.  Within  these 
almost  ruined  walls,  shaded  by  trees  and  ivy,  he  has 
written  some  of  his  most  famous  works.  Yonder  in  the 
valley  he  must  have  wandered,  surely.  No  one  could 
resist  it  long.  And  how  often  must  he  have  explored  the 
creeks  and  dells  beyond,  or  strayed  by  moonlight  to  a 
shady  nook  where  a  tiny  waterfall  gushes  from  a  silvery 
spring  down  upon  some  moss-grown  stones!  We  can 
almost  follow  the  man  in  his  walks,  and  realize  the  peace- 
ful life  which  he  must  have  loved  so  well  after  the  busy 
round  of  Paris. 

Far  above,  in  an  upper  story  overlooking  all  that  we 
have  just  seen,  there  is  a  window.  Jasmine  grows  upon 
its  sash  and  sends  its  light  perfume  to  the  room  within. 
A  winding  stair  of  well-worn  stone  leads  to  it.  We 
mount  it  and  discover  a  little  room  scarcely  nine  feet 
wide.  The  four-post  bed  and  its  yellow  curtains  are 
as  they  were  during  his  life.  He  himself  has  passed 
away ;  but  his  brain  has  left  a  legacy  behind.  A  small 
table  opposite  the  window  and  two  chairs  were  enough 
for  Balzac;  for  he  lived  wholly  in  his  dreams. 
^83 


i .  T 


T ,  V 


V .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

It  is  said  that  once  he  bought  a  piece  of  land  near 
Paris,  on  a  hillside,  at  an  angle  of  thirty-five  degrees. 
The  house  upon  it  could  scarcely  have  been  called  a  pavil- 
ion ;  but  Balzac,  in  his  imagination,  created  of  it  a  chateau. 
The  walls  of  the  dining-room  were  of  simple  plaster;  but 
upon  them  was  written  in  lead-pencil  the  following  in- 
scription: "A  superb  tapestry  from  Flanders — a  Titian — 
a  Rubens— a  beautifully  carved  side-board. ' '  And  in  the 
garden  the  rocks  and  pebbles  were  transformed  by  the 
same  method  into  cascades,  or  grottoes.  The  paths  were 
marked  out  by  small  stakes  driven  into  the  ground,  and 
the  green-houses  were  drawn  upon  paper. 

His  room  at  Sach6  was  the  humble  shelter  of  a  great 
imagination,  and  the  genius  of  the  man  has  made  the 
place  in  itself  great. 

As  we  left  the  chamber  where  so  many  hours  of  this  great 
life  had  been  spent  in  the  creation  of  those  characters 
which  were  to  immortalize  it,  I  turned  to  the  Comte  and 
congratulated  him  upon  the  happy  suggestion  which  had 
brought  us  here. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  he,  "it  is  a  sensation  of  respect 
which  causes  us  to  linger  at  the  haunts  of  past  poets,  or 
writers  of  imagery  and  romance.  And  we  are  the  more 
impressed,  I  think,  at  every  one  of  these,  by  the  sanctity 
which  time  has  conferred  upon  those  who  have  created, 
as  it  were,  from  their  own  substance  a  fame  which  may 
not  be  taken  from  them.  Stones  and  mortar  may 
crumble  into  dust,  trees  and  flowers  die,  and  nature  and 
her  surroundings  change.  Our  physical  bodies  may  even 
disappear ;  and  nothing  really  lives  after  us  but  the  soul, 
with  the  mind's  expression  of  its  own.  The  tiny  chateau 
which  is  now  fading  behind  us  in  the  distance  seems  to 
me  to  bring  out  this  fact  more  clearly  at  every  step." 

"You  are  doubtless  right,"  said  I,  and  as  we  turned  a 
comer  of  the  road  the  home  of  Balzac  disappeared  from 


our  view. 


284 


CHAPTKR    XIII 


The  most  convenient  way — indeed,  the  only  way,  and 
not  a  very  comfortable  way  at  that — of  going  to  the 
chateau  of  Rigny-Ussc  from  Azay  is  to  drive. 

If  you  are  stopping  at  the  "Hotel  du  Grand  Monarch" 
the  master  of  the  establishment  will  supply  you  with  a 
"charette  anglaise,"  thinking  to  please  you.  But 
beware  of  the  "charette  anglaise."  Those  who  value 
comfort  and  who  are  not  in  possession  of  a  lurking  desire 
— as  some  unfortunates  are — of  having  their  teeth  jolted 
out  of  the  head,  should  eschew  this  means  of  conveyance. 
The  horse,  indeed,  may  be  a  good  one ;  but  he  will  be  too 
small  for  the  shafts.  No  horse,  however  large,  could 
possibly  fill  so  vast  an  area.  You  will  start  off,  however, 
in  spite  of  difficulties.  And  with  every  movement  of  the 
cart  your  jovial  driver  will  be  jostled  against  you  like  a 
large  bolster,  as  you  sit  three  on  a  seat.  The  whole 
affair  is  innocent  of  springs,  and  with  every  step  of  the 
horse  it  shakes  from  side  to  side,  as  if  to  rid  itself  of  a 
burden  plainly  disagreeable  to  it.  Added  to  this,  the 
ruts  of  the  road  have  been  cut  into  deep  furrows,  so  that 
their  surface  is  more  like  that  of  a  plowed  field  than  of  a 
public  thoroughfare.  The  mud  is  hardened  by  the 
August  sun,  and  this  does  not,  indeed,  add  to  the  pleasure 
of  your  drive. 

As  we  drove  along  one  afternoon  in  such  a  manner  as  I 
have  described,  wc  discovered  the  reason  for  this  condi- 
tion of  the  roads,  a  condition  so  unusual  in  a  country 
285 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T ,  Y 


T .  V 


V .  T 


where  the  roads  are  more  often  like  private  avenues. 
Here,  however,  the  inhabitants  have  taken  advantage  of 
the  fertile  country  and  the  existence  of  the  river  to  build 
a  quantity  of  mills  upon  its  banks.  The  road  is,  there- 
fore, as  we  have  said,  rutted  by  the  heavily-laden  millers' 
carts,  which  may  often  be  seen  plying  their  way  along, 
their  two  great  wheels  and  green  canvas  tops  making 
them  a  picturesque  feature  in  the  landscape. 

Not  far  from  Azay  the  towers  of  the  little  chateau  de 
rislette  appear  to  the  left  of  the  road.  This  rather  dilap- 
idated fragment  of  Renaissance  architecture  has  some 
history  attached  to  it.  But  it  is  of  so  unimportant  a  char- 
acter that  its  present  value  is  principally  architectural. 
The  situation  is  a  pretty  one,  in  spite  of  being  too  near 
the  road.  The  river  Indre  winds  itself  about  the  chateau 
like  a  line  of  silver  thread.  We  may  hear  it  turning 
merrily  the  wheel  of  a  little  mill,  and  we  see  it  running 
on  beneath  a  rustic  bridge  to  hide  itself  at  last  beneath  a 
clump  of  drooping  trees.  An  air  of  sadness  and  of  forlorn 
neglect  hangs  over  the  roofs  and  towers  of  the  chateau. 
The  same  effect  predominates  within ;  and  after  visiting 
a  large  and  gloomy  salon,  the  visitor  is  glad  to  seek  the 
air  and  sunshine  once  more.  It  is  pleasant  to  shake  from 
our  shoes  the  heavy  atmosphere  of  passed  and  now-decay- 
ing grandeur.  For  what  have  we  to  do  with  the  darken- 
ing walls,  and  the  sadness  of  departed  beauty,  or  power, 
or  greatness?  We  have  no  time,  even  if  we  were  so 
disposed,  to  indulge  in  mourning  and  remorse.  The 
silvery  present  and  the  golden  future  engross  our  atten- 
tion and  call  us  forward.  Let  us  haste,  then,  over  the 
long,  uncut  grass,  across  the  fast-rotting  bridge,  haste  to 
the  falling  gateway,  that  we  may  regain  our  rustic  car- 
riage and  away.  Yes,  and  away!  Let  us  lash  the  horse 
into  a  gallop,  give  him  the  reins,  and  push  forward,  that 
we  may  escape  from  the  sadness  of  this  air  about  us. 
Let  us  fly  before  we  are  enshrouded  in  its  depressing  folds. 
286 
I 

i 


'*• .  T 


T .  y 


V .  y 


USSE 


i .  V 


Cast  not  a  look  behind,  lest  the  scene  now  past  should 
kill  the  enthusiasm  which  we  yet  retain  in  contemplation 
of  the  future  I 

L'Islette,  with  its  grass-grown  walks  and  weeping 
trees,  fades  into  the  mist  behind  us,  and  we  ride  on, 
through  the  long  lines  of  poplars,  over  the  green 
fields  and  hills,  until  at  last  we  see  the  towers  of  Uss<S  in 
the  distant  scene.  The  road  runs  by  the  side  of  a 
slope.  It  seems  to  bound  forward,  almost,  if  one  may 
imagine  such  a  thing.  As  we  follow  it  the  motion  of 
our  cart  is  far  from  pleasing.  We  pass  through  a  village 
where  the  inhabitants  are  busy  threshing  the  newly-cut 
wheat,  for  it  is  harvest  time.  Great  stacks  line  the  road, 
and  the  neighbors  have  been  gathered  together  in  num- 
bers in  order  to  lend  their  assistance.  The  machine  is 
puffing  vigorously,  frightening  the  horses  with  its  noise, 
and  throwing  out  the  wheat  ready  to  be  placed  in 
bags.  The  peasants  tie  the  straw  into  bundles  for 
other  uses,  and  as  the  whole  scene  passes  by,  it  leaves  its 
own  picturesque  impression  upon  the  mind.  On  the 
right  the  valley  grows  wider  as  it  joins  that  of  the  Loire, 
and  beyond  it  the  two  rivers  meet  and  continue  upon 
their  course  together.  From  the  surrounding  hills 
a  number  of  chateaux  look  down  upon  the  wedded 
waters,  and  lend  to  them  their  dignity.  "Roche- 
cotte,"  a  beautiful  though  modem  chateau,  rises  out  of 
the  trees  upon  the  distant  hillside.  "Villandry,"  full  of 
majesty  and  grace,  seems  to  lie  against  terraces  cut  into 
the  cliff.  In  the  midst  of  green  vineyards  and  flower- 
covered  gardens,  the  little  town  of  Langeais  shows  its 
smiling  face,  crowned  by  its  jeweled  castle.  In  the  dis- 
tance the  towers  of  St.  Gatien,  the  cathedral  of  Tours, 
rise  against  a  blue  horizon.  Even  from  here  we  realize 
the  truth  of  Henry  IV's  sa>nng,  that  they  needed  needle 
cases,  almost,  to  protect  the  delicacy  of  their  details. 
The   ruins  of   Cinq-Mars,    upon   the   left,    are   speaking 


4  .  Y 


T .  i 


( .  ¥ 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

remains  of  Richelieu's  terrible  vengeance;  and  we  recall 
with  sad  interest  the  unhappy  end  of  the  famous 
"Monsieur  le  Grand,"  with  his  short  reign  of  glory  at 
the  court  of  Louis  XIIL  Finally,  as  we  look  southward 
toward  the  beautiful  forest  of  Chinon,  a  number  of  white 
towers  and  pointed  spires  lighted  by  the  stm  rise  out  of 
their  green  clusters  like  a  brilliant  flower.  We  look  at 
them  again,  and  as  they  appear  more  clearly  we  see  that 
this  is  the  fairy-like  chateau  of  Uss6. 

We  draw  up  at  an  entrance  opening  upon  the  street  of 
the  Bourg,  and  hand  our  cards  to  a  venerable  looking 
"concierge." 

Monsieur  le  Comte  is  away,  but  we  are  at  liberty  to 
visit  the  whole  chateau  under  the  guardianship  of  an 
intelligent  housekeeper,  whose  politeness  and  interest 
might  serve  as  an  example  to  many  above  her  station. 
The  avenue  turns  sharply  to  the  right,  and  mounts  the 
eminence  upon  which  the  castle  stands  overlooking  the 
valley  and  hills.  Like  many  others,  it  is  built  upon  three 
sides  of  a  square ;  but  the  symmetry  is  broken  by  a  long 
wing  extending  to  the  right  along  the  front.  The  avenue 
runs  over  a  bridge  for  the  entire  length  of  the  fa9ade, 
opening  into  the  courtyard  and  ending  under  a  great 
canopy  of  trees  at  the  entrance  to  the  park.  A  balus- 
trade protects  the  pedestrian  from  the  dangers  of  a  high 
wall  forming  part  of  the  ancient  fortifications  of  Uss6, 
and  beneath  it  is  a  terrace,  laid  out  in  "jardins-a-la- 
fran<jais. "  Shrubs  and  orange  trees,  with  flowers  and 
boxes,  make  this  one  of  the  most  beautiful  parterres  to 
be  seen.  Another  terrace  still  divides  this  from  the  road, 
upon  the  other  side  of  which  the  dark  waters  of  the  Indre 
run  like  a  living  avenue  of  silvery  substance. 

The  donjon  tower  of  Uss6  dates  back  to  the  fifteenth 
century.  But  the  rest  of  the  chateau,  as  it  stands  to-day, 
was  rebuilt  by  Vauban,  a  famous  engineer  and 
"Mardchal"  under  Louis   XIV.      Perhaps,  however,   it 


ISSK 


wouUl  be  more  correct  to  say  that  Uss6  was  reconstructed 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  elaborately  ornamented  and 
improved  by  Vauban,  to  whom  is  due  the  beautiful 
chamber  of  Louis  XIV,  overlookinji  the  courtyard. 
\'auban  did  much  to  improve  the  chateau  and  its  sur- 
roundings, and  his  daughter  lived  there  for  some  time 
with  her  husband,  Louis  II  of  Valentinay.  Certain 
details  in  the  facade  are  worthy  of  more  than  our  casual 
admiration.  The  whole  gallery  at  the  back  of  the  court- 
yard is  a  good  example  of  Gothic  architecture.  Its  walls 
are  flanked  by  flat  buttresses.  They  reach  to  the  roofs 
and  end  there  in  beautifully  ornamented  points  of  stone, 
so  common  in  all  Gothic  detail,  reminding  one  of  the 
chapels  of  that  period,  both  in  France  and  England.  The 
best  portion  of  the  wing  upon  the  left  is  a  lantern  or 
open  cupola,  delicately  carved  in  stone,  and  it  would 
scarcely  be  excessive  praise  to  call  this  little  ornament 
upon  the  roof  of  the  great  chateau  a  "chef-d'oeuvre."  It 
stands  against  the  sky,  like  a  great  bell,  and  its  graceful 
contour  is  in  keeping  with  the  gallery  itself. 

A  great  deal  of  Gothic  detail  has  crept  into  the  archi- 
tecture at  Uss6,  so  much,  indeed,  that  it  plays  no  small 
part  in  the  general  effect.  The  stone  windows  of  the 
roof  are  rich  in  those  points  and  darkened  crevices  in 
which  the  Gothic  art  so  delights  to  clothe  itself.  Tiny 
minarets  and  jeweled  tops  surmount  the  roofs,  the  towers 
and  the  topmost  spires.  In  its  effect  the  whole  chateau 
is  immense.  The  two  towers  of  the  back  rise  out  of  a 
forest  of  spiral  roofs,  smaller  towers,  projecting  bays  and 
buttresses.  They  combine  to  form  a  noble  pile,  too  hard 
perhaps  in  its  coloring, — like  so  many  other  French 
buildings, — but  yet  fair  to  look  upon  as  a  mass,  and 
interesting  to  study,  if  only  for  its  size  and  shape.  One 
tower  reminds  us  of  "la  Tour  des  Anglais,"  at  Chenon- 
<;eau.  Its  massive  cornice  is  carried  on  around  the 
exterior  walls  of  the  castle,  although  it  is  not  included 
289 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

in  the  fa9ades  of  the  court.  Here  the  cornice  is  cut  off 
abruptly,  and  it  is  continued  upon  the  other  side,  as  if  the 
court  had  been  originally  enclosed  by  a  fourth  side,  now 
eliminated. 

The  principal  entrance,  instead  of  being  placed  in  the 
centre  of  this  court,  is  upon  its  right-hand  side,  and  it  is 
of  unpretentious  aspect.  It  leads  into  a  square  central 
hall,  lined  with  white  stone,  and  chiefly  ornamented  by  a 
great  square  staircase.  In  its  decorations,  though  simple 
almost  to  barrenness,  this  hall  with  its  staircase  is 
nevertheless  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  striking  bits 
of  the  interior.  Its  strong  contrast  to  that  at  Azay-le- 
Rideau;  the  exceeding  purity  of  its  white  stones, 
enhanced  by  their  only  relief — a  railing  of  black  iron- 
work; each  plays  its  share  in  this  excellent  example  of 
"beauty  unadorned,  adorned  the  most."  Guide  books 
and  itineraries  tell  of  a  beautiful  painting  hung  here  and 
attributed  to  Michel  Angelo.  It  is  invisible,  however,  to 
the  eye,  and  the  walls  remain  in  maiden  purity,  undis- 
turbed by  any  works  of  art. 

Let  us  ascend  this  massive  staircase  that  re-echoes  our 
every  footstep.  It  leads  to  the  apartments  of  a  bygone 
king.  A  gallery  opens  upon  the  left,  out  of  the  first 
landing.  It  is  worth  looking  into,  for  it  has  been  well 
repaired  and  the  Gothic  vaultings,  ever  of  white  stone, 
are  relieved  by  family  escutcheons,  brilliant  in  their 
heraldic  colors. 

Our  guide  seemed  an  intelligent  woman,  and  inclined 
to  tell  us  something  of  the  chateau  and  its  life. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte*  spends  a  great  deal  of  time  and 
money  in  repairing  Uss^,"  she  began,  as  we  were 
speaking  of  the  condition  of  the  gallery.  "He  is 
continually  doing  something,  either  to  the  outside  or  to 
the  interior.  Ces  messieurs  cannot  imagine  how  much 
there  is  to  do  in  so  large  and  so  old  a  chateau.     The 

*The  Chateau  of  Uss6  is  owned  by  the  Comte  de  Blaccas. 
290 


USSE 

stone  is  so  soft  everywhere  that  it  must  be  patched  or 
repaired  constantly.  Steps  wear  out  with  surprising 
rapidity.  Window-caps  fall  down;  even  towers  crack,  so 
that  it  is  necessary  for  them  to  be  entirely  rebuilt.  Ah, 
monsieur,  it  is  indeed  no  joke  to  keep  up  a  great  chateau 
in  France!  At  Azay-lc-Rideau  they  have  much  harder 
work,  even,  than  we  have ;  but  all  is  in  perfect  condi- 
tion there  now.  Ces  messieurs  have  been  there,  of 
course?" 

"Yes.  In  fact,  we  had  just  come  from  it  this  after- 
noon." My  companion  sympathized  with  our  guide  in 
the  cares  incumbent  upon  the  owner  of  a  chateau.  He 
doubtless  spoke  from  bitter  experience. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  gallery  our  attendant  added: 
"The  next  room  of  interest  is  the  apartment  of  Louis 
XIV." 

We  waited  while  she  closed  doors  and  opened  others. 

"The  room  which  we  are  going  to  see, "  said  my  friend, 
"was  built  by  Vauban  with  this  portion  of  the  chateau 
to  receive  Louis  XIV.  It  is  naturally  the  most  beautiful 
and  interesting  part." 

As  he  spoke  we  entered  an  ante-chamber,  decorated 
with  painted  wood,  and  hung  with  mirrors.  Had  it  been 
well  furnished  this  would  have  been  a  beautiful  room ; 
but,  unfortunately,  it  was  left  barren  of  such  things  as 
chairs  or  tables.  Two  large  doors  on  either  side  of  the 
opposite  wall  led  into  the  royal  chamber.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  imagine  a  more  exquisitely  appointed,  a  more 
truly  appropriate  room  than  this,  built  that  "le  Grand 
Monarch"  might  rest  but  a  single  night.  Its  taste 
and  its  correctness  in  design  are  striking  examples  of 
the  luxury  and  extravagance  during  the  reign  of  Louis 
XIV.  Here  was  a  room,  an  apartment,  indeed  the  whole 
third  of  a  castle,  erected  expressly  to  receive  a  royal 
visitor.  It  took,  doubtless,  a  year  or  more  to  prepare  it, 
and  the  royal  pleasure  dismissed  it  in  a  single  day.  But 
291 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T ,  Y 


r .  T 


r.T 


Y .  T 


Louis  XIV  did  far  more  good  than  he  himself  could 
realize,  by  his  very  extravagance  and  his  demands  upon 
time  and  taste  that  he  might  satisfy  his  fastidious  lik- 
ings. Infinite  labor  and  money  and  human  suffering 
were  undoubtedly  expended,  wasted  even,  during  his 
reign  of  splendor;  but  the  beautiful  monuments,  erected 
for  his  personal  pleasure,  have  had  a  far  deeper  signifi- 
cance, a  more  lasting  effect  upon  the  artistic  world,  than 
as  the  mere  whims  of  "le  Grand  Monarch."  As  in  the 
case  of  this  wing  of  Uss6,  he  has  been  the  originator  of 
beautiful  and  artistic  conceptions  which  have  lived 
long  after  himself  or  his  monarchy,  to  delight,  to  edu- 
cate, and  to  refine  all  those  who  behold  them. 

The  apartment  itself,  in  which  we  stand,  is  very  large 
and  divided  at  the  further  end  by  Corinthian  columns. 
Like  the  remaining  portions  of  the  woodwork,  these  are 
painted  white,  and  relieved  with  gold.  The  furniture  is 
also  of  gold,  and  of  the  purest  and  most  perfect  Louis 
XIV  pattern.  Perhaps  the  chief  character  of  the  room 
comes  from  the  heavy  brocaded  silk  in  which  every- 
thing is  hung.  This  is  of  a  deep  yet  delicate  shade 
of  rose  color,  with  an  elaborate  pattern  upon  it,  in  white. 
The  long  curtains  of  the  great  windows  and  the  chairs 
and  couches  are  rich  in  this  material,  giving  an  added 
air  of  dignity  and  beauty  to  the  whole.  The  royal  bed  is 
in  itself  a  masterpiece  of  taste  and  art.  It  is  held  by  four 
posts,  narrowing  toward  the  top  that  they  may  support  a 
round  dome,  or  canopy,  completely  draped  in  the 
brocade.  But  the  charm  of  this  room,  so  truly  belonging 
to  the  period  of  Louis  XIV,  is  its  wonderful  delicacy,  its 
perfect  refinement,  in  short,  its  veritable  genius  of  taste. 
For  what  is  that  which  in  everj'  detail  delights  the  senses 
and  the  eyes,  which  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  itself, 
and  yet  so  far  above  all  around  it,  but  genius?  In  the 
delicacy  of  their  taste,  the  French  seem  to  have  indeed 
reached  this  state. 


29- 


i .  T 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


USSE 


>iM, 


The  view  from  the  large  window  at  the  end  of  the  room 
and  its  iron  balcony  is  one  which,  if  we  saw  it  in  a  pic- 
ture, we  would  say  could  not  exist,  for  it  would  be 
too  fairy-like.  It  is  one  which  exists  only  in  soft  dreams, 
until  we  have  seen  it.  A  marble  basin  filled  with  water- 
lilies  lies  at  our  feet,  as  if  waiting  for  the  king  to  step 
upon  it.  Flower-covered  terraces  fall,  one  below  the 
other,  beneath  it.  The  river  beyond  shines  like  a  collec- 
tion of  numberless  crystals,  as  we  look  down.  For  once, 
it  has  ceased  to  be  dark  and  sad.  The  distant  scene — 
how  shall  we  describe  it?  A  Greuze,  a  Poussin  could 
alone  paint  it,  as  it  unfolds  its  faint  mysteries  to  the  won- 
dering imagination  I 

The  other  windows  of  the  room  look  out  upon  the 
architecture  of  the  chateau's  court.  And  as  we  stand  in 
tliese  elevating  surroundings  a  thrill  of  pleasure  darts 
through  the  whole  frame.  Under  such  circumstances  as 
these,  life  should  indeed  be  pleasant! 

The  Comte  must  have  been  indulging  in  much  the 
same  opinion  as  myself.  He  was  evidently  of  the  latter 
class,  judging  from  the  sudden  remark  which  he  now 
made.  He  broke  in  upon  my  thoughts,  taking  them  up 
almost  as  if  I  had  uttered  them  aloud. 

"And  yet  I  doubt,"  said  he,  as  we  stood  admiring  the 
surrounding  picture,  "I  doubt  if  the  present  master  of 
Uss6  is  as  happy  as  we  are.  The  glitter  and  the  first 
appearance  of  such  things  as  we  are  looking  at  must  ever 
be  filled  with  charm,  and  we  are  wont  to  think  that  all  is 
a  fairy-like  reality.  But  the  moment  that  we  push  aside 
the  surface,  and  look  beneath  it,  then  do  we  find  things 
which  arc  far  from  fair>'-like  in  all  life.  This  is  a  sad 
truth  from  which  we  may  not  escape,  and  we  find  it  even 
in  those  who  seem  to  possess  the  greatest  things  for 
which  to  live." 

It  took  me  some  moments  to  appreciate  the  mood 
into  which  my  friend  had  thrown  himself.     I  myself  had 


T .  S 


t.t 


i .  T 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   IN   TOURAINE 


hardly  felt  inclined  to  analyze  or  to  dissect  the  actual 
reality  of  what  I  had  seen.  But  finding  that  he  was 
doing  so,  I  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said:  "If  you 
are  determined  to  moralize  in  this  strain,  it  seems  to 
me  enough  to  be  thankful  for  to  have  so  beautiful  an 
exterior  as  Uss6.  Few  people  have  even  as  much  as  this 
to  boast  of.  Few  are  there,  gifted  with  a  smiling  face  to 
hide  an  aching  heart.  Few  have  the  marble  staircase 
even,  though  it  may  lead  but  to  an  empty  chamber. 

"If  life  might  once  ring  true;  if  we  might  only  find, 
beneath  the  beautiful  exterior,  the  longed-for  beauty  that 
is  so  seldom  there,  then  would  we  know  a  fairy  paradise 
such  as  truth  only  may  create.  But,  alas,  all  our  jewels 
seem  to  possess  a  flaw.  All  our  images  are  tarnished  and 
imperfect.     All  beauty  seems  but  skin  deep." 

"It  has  often  seemed  to  me,"  rejoined  the  Comte, 
"that  since  this  is  so,  we  should  be  happier  to  live  a  life 
which  many  would  stamp  as  shallow.  To  deal  only  in 
the  surface  matter,  to  live  in  a  continuous  sphere  of 
light-heartedness  and  gentle  glamour,  to  limit  oneself  to 
the  charms  of  polite  acquaintances,  would  be  more 
philosophical  than  we  are  sometimes  willing  to  acknowl- 
edge. ' ' 

"Your  remark  sounds  very  pessimistic  as  it  falls  upon 
the  ear,"  I  replied;  "but  I  cannot  deny  that  there  is 
a  certain  truth  in  what  you  say.  If  we  all  lived  such  a 
life  as  you  suggest,  we  would  lose  many  of  the  joys  of 
intimate  friendship,  as  well  as  much  of  our  experience  of 
human  nature.  But  on  the  other  hand,  we  would  save 
ourselves  many  trials,  and  often  much  unnecessary 
sorrow." 

The  Comte  held  to  his  theory,  his  "shallow  theory," 
as  he  called  it. 

"A  man  who  is  wise,"  said  he,  "will  seldom  try  to 
burrow  deeper  than  the  surface,  for  his  wisdom  will  have 
taught  him  that  every  one  has  something  displeasing 
294 


USSE 


underneath,  some  trouble,  some  misfortune,  some  private 
sorrow  which  it  were  better  for  him  nut  to  know.  For,  if 
ignorant  of  it,  he  may  keep  a  countenance  more  fit 
to  cheer  than  if  he  is  loaded  down  with  another's  grief, 
added  to  his  own.  A  cheerful  countenance  and  a  light 
heart  do  more  good  than  a  thousand  mourning  friends, 
however  full  of  sympathy  or  pity  they  may  be." 

By  this  time  we  had  descended  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  we  left  our  argument  behind  us  in  the  royal  apart- 
ments. 

"Is  the  chamber  ever  used  to-day?"  I  had  asked,  as  the 
door  was  closing  behind  us. 

"Not  often,  monsieur,"  was  the  reply,  "only  when 
some  very  great  lady  comes  for  a  visit." 

As  we  descended  the  grand  staircase  the  housekeeper 
continued: 

"No,  messieurs;  the  room  is  not  used  much  nowadays, 
although  it  is  always  open.  As  you  may  imagine,  ladies 
are  pleased  to  have  it,  when  they  come  to  stay.  .  .  . 
Monsieur  le  Comte's  apartments  are  on  the  other  side  of 
the  courtyard.  That  is  his  private  entrance,"  said  she, 
pointing  to  a  little  door  close  to  the  ground.  "He  must 
either  cross  the  court,  or  pass  through  the  long  gallery 
at  the  back,  to  reach  this  drawing-room  where  wc  are 
now  standing.  Ah,  the  old  chateaux  are  not  always  as 
convenient  as  the  new  ones,  messieurs." 

We  lingered  for  a  moment  where  we  were  to  admire 
some  old  portraits  hanging  upon  the  walls.  We  then 
passed  through  a  gallery  similar  to  the  one  above,  and 
entered  the  private  library.  This  apartment  was  one  of 
the  most  perfect  little  rooms  of  its  kind  that  we  had  yet 
seen,  and  we  stopped  to  examine  some  Gothic  car\'ing 
over  the  doors.  A  long  suite  of  apartments  led  one 
into  another  beyond;  but  they  were  of  too  private  a 
nature  to  be  described  here.  For  some  time  we  wan- 
dered through  them,  seeing  many  things  of  interest,  and 

295 


^^^^a^^^a 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

breathing  in  the  atmosphere  of  Uss6.  But  in  spite  of 
white  stones,  of  flowers,  and  the  sunlight  outside,  in 
spite  of  historical  and  artistic  ornament  within,  that  old 
air  of  melancholy  and  tristesse  which  we  had  learned  to 
know  so  well  in  many  of  these  ancient  monuments  of 
France,  thrust  itself  again  upon  us  here.  There  was  no 
ignoring  its  existence,  although  we  endeavored  to  throw 
it  off  by  conversation. 

We  were  standing  in  the  dining-room  of  the  chateau  at 
that  particular  moment,  and  commenting  upon  its  size. 
It  looked  incongruous,  we  were  obliged  to  own,  and  out 
of  keeping  with  the  dignity  around  it.  As  I  expressed 
surprise  at  its  smallness,  my  friend  remarked  that  there 
would  be  no  use  for  a  larger  one. 

"How  strange  it  seems,"  said  I,  "to  find  a  vast 
chateau  such  as  this,  with  which  so  little  life  is  appar- 
ently connected!  I  can  never  cease  to  feel  the  want  of 
this  in  most  of  the  places  that  we  have  visited.  It  seems 
to  me,  with  such  a  place  as  this,  that  my  first  idea  would 
be  to  fill  each  room,  each  comer  of  it,  with  guests  and 
brilliancy;  to  dot  each  terrace,  each  parterre  with  beauty, 
with  birth  and  breeding;  to  surround  this  table  here 
with  an  intellectual  company  that  would  do  it  honor. 
And  even  with  this,  one  would  ask  for  more,  for  art,  for 
interest,  for  beauty,  noblesse — life,  in  short." 

"Ah,"  replied  my  friend,  "you  paint  a  most  attractive 
picture ;  but  I  fear  that  you  will  not  find  so  brilliant  a 
one  among  all  the  galleries  of  the  French  chateaux  to-day. 
Such  pictures  were  realities  in  other  days.  Now  they  are 
but  food  for  the  imagination. 

"That  systematic  hospitality  which  is  so  large  a  part  of 
English  country  life  you  will  fail  to  find  in  France.  The 
more  that  you  live  among  French  people,  the  more  you 
will  be  impressed  by  their  lack  of  entertaining,  their  lack, 
even,  of  the  desire  for  it  when  it  is  possible.  There  is 
this,  however,  to  be  taken  into  account,  that  it  is  not 
296 


USSE 

often  possible  to  entertain  largely  in  a  French  chateau. 
To  begin  with,  the  accommodations  are  frciiuently 
limited.  Feudal  fortifications  and  towers  were  con- 
structed more  for  exterior  defense  than  for  their  interior 
convenience.  In  the  largest  chateaux  there  are  often  but 
few  spare  rooms.  The  French  nobility  are  as  a  rule 
comparatively  poor,  for  the  expense  entailed  upon  a  large 
estate  leaves  but  a  narrow  margin  to  an  income.  Many 
people  have  taken  advantage  of  this  fact  to  retire  to  their 
chateaux,  where  they  live  almost  in  seclusion  for  a  large 
portion  of  the  year.  They  receive  but  little,  and  visit 
still  less.  As  years  go  on,  they  seem  to  become  even 
less  sociable  than  before.  They  occupy  themselves  with 
the  internal  management  of  their  estates,  living  almost 
entirely  in  their  family  circle  and  playing  but  a  minor 
part  in  the  national  community.  It  is  no  wonder,  then, 
that  the  community  shows  the  effect  of  such  apathy  upon 
the  part  of  those  who  should  be  stationed  toward  the 
front.  There  is  little  wonder  that  politics  fall  in  their 
tone  and  standing,  that  bourgeois  taste  and  principles 
predominate,  and  that  half  the  salons  of  the  Champs 
Elys^es  are  filled  with  those  who  have  but  little  title  to 
their  places." 

"But,  at  least,"  said  I,  somewhat  taken  aback  by  this 
sudden  outburst  on  the  part  of  the  Comte,  "there  is  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain,  with  the  prestige  of  its  ancienne 
noblesse,  that  holds  its  place  untouched  by  outward 
changes  to  society,  and  represents  all  that  is  best  of  the 
old  r<5gime. " 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  he  assented;  "but  it  seems  to  con- 
tract more  and  more,  to  retire,  as  it  were,  into  a  shell 
which  may  not  be  penetrated,  and  to  surround  itself  with 
a  halo  of  disdain,  instead  of  coming  forward  and  play- 
ing the  part  that  it  should. 

"Indeed,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,"   he  con- 
tinued, "that  our  aristocracy  has  lost  its  relative  stand- 
297 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  T 


ing  and  place  in  this  country,  that  fortune  and  money 
run  into  new  and  unknown  channels.  An  all-consuming 
pride  seems  to  have  numbed  those  who  should  be  in  the 
foremost  ranks  to  crush  improper  measures,  now  un- 
stayed, and  to  rule  with  justice,  dignity  and  grace  that 
mass  of  beings  who  know  not  what  they  wish  to  do  nor 
how  to  do  it." 

"But  in  spite  of  this,  there  must  surely  be  a  large  class 
who  are  still  blessed  with  their  rightful  fortunes  and  who 
still  hold  their  proper  importance  in  the  national  sphere. 
There  must  be  at  least  some  families  who  play  the  part 
that  they  are  entitled  to  play  in  their  country."  ^j.    ^.^        _^,^ 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Comte,  "there  are  a  few  to-day     M     A  k 

who  do  so,  but  so  few  that  they  form  but  a  handful  in  the  * 

mass,  much  less  a  class.  There  are  some  who  keep  up  a 
life  of  interest,  of  social  gaiety  and  political  import- 
ance ;  but  these  are  perhaps  two  or  three  out  of  a  thou- 
sand. ' ' 

"How  about  the  hunting,  the  shooting,  and  the  other 
sports?"  I  enquired.  "These  beautiful  parks,  these  great 
forests  and  this  rich  country,  they  cannot  all  remain  idle. 
There  must  be  autumn  sports,  and  gatherings  of  people 
to  enjoy  them." 

"There  are,  as  you  say,"  returned  the  Comte,  "some 
personages  in  the  country,  as  well  as  in  Paris,  who 
give  entertainments  without  number,  whose  salons  are 
filled  with  people  of  elegance,  of  distinction,  and  of 
talent,  and  whose  parks  are  well  stocked  with  game. 
But  the  mass — I  mean  the  mass  of  the  old  French 
aristocracy — is  wonderfully  conservative.  Its  mem- 
bers are  bound  up  in  themselves  in  the  most  nar- 
row and  impenetrable  manner.  They  consider  them- 
selves superior  to  any  other  class,  and,  in  fact,  each 
person  considers  himself  more  or  less  superior  to  every 
other.  Thus,  interesting  salons  and  even  moderatel)^  » u  • 
hospitable  houses  are  few  and  far  between,  even  during     CT     A  k 

298 


U  S  S  K 


Y .  Y 


T .  Y 


the  season  in  Paris.  As  for  the  country,  a  cotillon,  pre- 
ceded by  a  banquet,  in  the  beautiful  hall  of  some  historic 
chateau,  is  indeed  a  fair  sight  to  see;  but  unfortunately 
such  entertainments  occur  only  once  or  twice  in  a  year. 
Asa  rule,  they  take  place  in  September;  but  in  what- 
ever month  they  may  be,  the  day  after  the  event  the 
castle,  the  owners  and  the  guests  all  fall  back  again  into 
a  very  prosaic  life.  Most  people  entertain  only  a  few 
guests  at  a  time,  partly  because  it  is  too  expensive,  and 
partly  because  they,  very  often,  do  not  feel  inclined  to 
entertain  them.  For  in  France  it  is  not  like  England, 
where  the  guest  is  expected  to  make  himself  at  home  and 
to  amuse  himself  as  he  pleases.  Here,  on  the  contrary, 
the  guest  expects  to  be  amused,  and  to  have  every  hour 
of  the  day  arranged  for  him.  Thus  it  is  well-nigh 
impossible  to  entertain  to  any  extent  unless  one  has  a 
large  stable — and  more  especially,  a  large  income." 

"You  somewhat  surprise  mc  by  this,"  said  I,  "for  I 
have  always  thought  that  the  French  were  the  most  easily 
entertained,  as  well  as  the  most  entertaining,  people  in 
the  world." 

"Asa  Frenchman,  I  thank  you  for  the  compliment," 
replied  the  Comte,  "but  I  fear  that  you  give  to  us  more 
than  we  deserve.  In  one  way,  we  do  know  how  to  be 
amused,  but  seldom  if  ever  how  to  sustain  our  amuse- 
ments. We  require  a  constant  change,  we  cannot  do 
without  it.  We  must  have  movement  and  diversion,  or 
we  become  perfectly  wretched.  Moreover,  as  a  nation,  we 
are  not  fond  of  sports.  We  do  not  often  ride.  Shooting 
and  hunting,  as  you  have  seen,  we  indulge  in  but  moder- 
ately. As  a  general  rule,  we  dislike  walking  as  much  as 
riding,  and  tennis  is  only  a  pastime  for  callers  who  have 
stayed  too  long.  Cricket,  polo  and  golf  are  pleasures 
almost  unknown." 

"But  what,  then,"  I  enquired  in  some  wonderment,  "do 
people  do  for  their  amusement,  if  they  cut  themselves  off 
299 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


t.t 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

from  all  those  diversions   upon  which  other  nations  are 
so  dependent?" 

"You  will  scarcely  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
most  of  the  days  are  spent  within  doors,  playing  at 
bezique,"  returned  my  friend,  in  amusement.  "Indeed, 
bezique  is  such  an  engrossing  occupation  in  the  chateau 
life  that  it  is  with  the  greatest  difficulty  guests  are 
torn  away  from  it  even  to  attend  mass  upon  Sunday.  I 
have  seen  many  ladies,  who  after  a  week's  stay  at  a 
chateau  in  the  midst  of  summer  weather,  had  not  been 
once  into  the  park  or  the  garden,  so  busy  were  they 
playing  bezique. 

"The  very  suggestion  of  a  picnic  is  the  signal  for 
an  internal  thunderstorm,  which  breaks  often  with  some 
violence  upon  those  concerned.  Each  guest  raises  a 
separate  objection.  One  finds  it  too  damp,  another  too 
dry;  and  a  third  dislikes  dejeuner  on  the  grass.  One 
lady  is  accustomed  to  change  her  knife  and  fork  at  every 
course — a  thing  almost  unheard  of!  Of  course,  the 
hostess  has  not  enough  picnic  forks  to  go  round  under 
such  circumstances,  or  at  least  she  thinks  so.  One  gen- 
tleman is  upon  crutches,  and  yet  will  not  remain  behind. 
An  old  lady  is  too  feeble  to  go,  and  yet  cannot  be  left  at 
home.  Some  shrink  at  the  very  idea  of  meeting  a  spider, 
while  others  dread  possible  mosquitoes.  And,  worst  of 
all,  the  lady  of  the  house  has  but  one  idea,  that  of  see- 
ing the  whole  plan  fall  through. 

"If  by  chance  the  picnic — this  ill-fated  picnic — does 
take  place,  the  family  coach,  drawn  by  an  endless  num- 
ber of  horses,  is  needed  to  carry  apparently  the  whole 
dining-hall,  chairs  and  tables  included,  to  the  appointed 
place.  The  gentleman  upon  crutches  inevitably  hits  his 
foot  against  a  tree  and  loses  both  his  balance  and  his 
temper.  The  old  lady,  who  has  decided  to  come  at  the 
last  moment,  has  by  an  unguarded  movement  dropped 
her  salad  on  her  dress  and  becomes  inconsolable  for  the 
300 


<    "  AI'II.     «>|-      III  I.     (    II  A   11.  Al         I. 


•  I    .^>^l-. 


USSE 

rest  of  the  day.  She  is  at  last  packed  into  the  coach  with 
her  fellow-sufferer,  the  gentleman  upon  crutches.  And 
so,  you  see,  "  the  Comte  concluded,  with  a  smile,  "that 
chateau  life  is,  after  all,  not  all  it  is  claimed  to  be." 

"Ves,"  said  I,  "It  is  just  as  well  to  keep  to  the  out- 
side of  life,  for  your  description  convinces  me  that  it  is 
often  more  attractive  than  the  interior." 

"Sometimes,"  rejoined  my  friend,  taking  my  arm  and 
walking  toward  the  terrace,  "sometimes,  indeed,  we  see 
a  golden  surface  which  is  not  gilded  but  is  really  gold 
beneath.  But  often,  far  more  often,  we  find  that  it  is 
merely  superficial." 

We  continued  to  walk  away  from  the  chateau,  and  a 
few  steps  brought  us  to  a  piece  of  open  ground  in  front 
of  the  private  chapel  of  Ussd.  This  building  is  certainly 
not  the  least  of  its  many  beauties.  It  is  supposed  to  have 
been  built  by  Jacques  d'Espinay,  who  owned  the  chateau 
in  14S0.  In  1538  Jacques  d'Espinay,  the  second, 
founded  in  the  chapel  a  collegiate  of  eight  canons.  This 
probably  accounts  for  its  size,  which  is  far  greater  than 
that  of  most  private  chapels.  It  leads  us  to  suspect,  at 
once,  some  historical  association,  for  it  assumes  almost 
the  importance  of  a  church.  As  it  stands  to-day  it  is  a 
beautiful  little  church  of  the  Renaissance  period,  the 
ensemble  of  whose  construction  joins  with  the  delicacy  of 
its  detail,  to  create  an  example  of  architecture  that  is 
worthy  of  admiration.  The  bas-relief  over  the  door 
representing  the  Apostles,  is  an  exceptional  piece  of 
carving.  And  the  symraetr)-  of  the  whole  chapel  is  decid- 
edly, remarkable.  What  a  benefit  would  it  be  to  the 
western  world  if,  even  for  one  year,  it  did  but  stay  the 
overwhelming  tide  of  emigrants  and  substitute  this  for 
an  importation  of  Europ)ean  architecture! 

The  chajiel,  within,  "has  been  restored — in  fact,  it  has 
only  recently  been  completed — and  the  cold  and  rather  bar- 
ren walls  speak  of  a  severe  purity  more  holy  perhaps  than 

3o« 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


T .  T 


V ,  X 


r .  Y 


it  is  agreeable.  The  eye  wanders  in  distress  over  an  arid 
surface  of  white  stone  to  the  stiffly-groined  roof,  but  it 
rests  with  joy  upon  two  beautiful  bits  of  carving  above 
the  doors  leading  into  the  sacristy.  It  is  like  an  oasis 
that  refreshes  and  almost  overshadows  the  artistic  desert 
about  it.  The  architect  seems  here  to  have  concentrated 
all  his  powers,  all  his  art.  He  has  saved  his  strength  until 
this  point  was  reached,  and  there  bursts  forth  into  a  dis- 
play of  detail  which  bears  the  stamp  of  great  ability,  if 
not  of  genius.  The  only  other  thing  of  merit  in  the 
chapel  is  the  wooden  screen  which  divides  it  in  the 
centre. 

The  mind,  in  this  refinement  of  surroundings,  floated 
off  into  spheres  and  regions  unknown.  And  the  holy 
oil  burnt  above  the  heads  of  two  men,  different  in  lan- 
guage, in  nationality,  in  religious  belief,  but  here  join- 
ing in  an  homage  common  to  them  both.  They  spoke 
to  a  Being  who  could  understand  their  differences  and 
who  could  bring  all  men  nearer  to  one  another. 

There  all  human  differences  fade  into  nothingness,  into 
the  distant  mists  where  they  belong,  and  all  material 
unhappiness  is  lost  in  spiritual  reality.  Such  moments, 
however,  are  allowed  to  be  but  moments  upon  earth, 
and  before  we  have  realized  the  beauty  of  the  light  that 
we  have  reached,  we  return  once  more  to  a  reality,  never- 
theless, better  than  before. 

The  great  avenue  of  the  chateau  stretches  out  before 
us,  the  broad,  flat  surface  swept  as  free  from  leaves  as 
if  it  were  a  marble  floor.  The  fine  trees  in  their  sym- 
metrical positions  bend  over  the  head,  and  stretch  their 
arms  toward  one  another  in  what  would  seem  to  be  an 
universal  embrace.  The  sharp  leaves  of  ixy  are  so  dark 
that  they  are  almost  black  in  the  shady  comers.  They 
cling  to  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  as  they  did  at  Valen9ay. 
The  chapel  is  lost  behind  the  towers  of  the  chateau.  The 
white  walls,  the  balcony,  the  ornamented  windows,  all 
302 


i .  T 


T .  i' 


f .  i 


I  .  T 


USSE 


grow  faint  and  j'et  fainter  through  the  screen  of  light 
preen  leaves.  At  length,  the  whole  of  \Jss6 — its  towers, 
its  royal  chambers,  its  terraces,  its  gardens — is  but  a  tiny 
picture  at  the  end  of  the  long  vista.  The  sun  sends  a 
shower  of  golden  beams  from  the  western  horizon 
through  the  trees  and  over  the  ground.  They  light  upon 
the  leaves  of  iNy,  xipon  the  mass  of  white  stone,  now  in 
the  distance.  They  strike  a  spire  of  the  northern  tower 
and  come  back  to  us  with  redoubled  effect.  In  another 
moment  they  have  vanished,  and  with  them  Uss6  also 
has  disappeared. 


i .  i 


T .  T 


r .  T 


.^03 


Y .  T 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Nothing  is  more  delightful  or  more  invigorating  than 
an  autumn  morning  in  France,  when  the  sparkling  dew 
upon  every  blade  of  grass  catches  the  rays  of  the  sun  and 
spreads  a  carpet  of  crystal  drops  over  the  ground. 

Let  us  picture  ourselves  enjoying  just  such  a  day  as 
this,  and  walking  over  a  beautiful  coimtry  road  from 
Pontvallain  to  le  Lude.  It  stretches  out  before  us  in  a 
long  and  whitened  line.  Now  we  are  winding  our  way 
across  a  newly-plowed  field,  now  cutting  the  side  of  a 
pasture  dotted  with  pink  crocuses  and  surrounded  by 
rough  briar  hedges.  Here  and  there  a  pollard  rises  above 
the  head.  We  come  to  a  pine  forest,  fragrant  with  that 
peculiar  perfume  of  the  needles  in  the  morning  air,  a 
perfume,  by  the  way,  which  makes  this  country  one  of 
the  most  healthful  portions  of  western  France.  Some  dis- 
tance further  on  an  open  space  appears;  a  field  lies  to  our 
right,  and  our  road  is  cut  by  another  at  right  angles. 
Near  the  corner  stands  a  small  granite  pyramid,  sur- 
mounted by  an  iron  cross,  which  is  eaten  by  the  rust  of 
centuries  and  is  in  keeping  with  the  stone  beneath  it. 
From  the  centre  of  the  cross  hangs  one  of  those  wreaths, 
in  black  and  white  beads  of  jet,  so  common  to  the  French 
churchyard.  No  other  ornament  of  any  kind  adorns 
this  ancient  memorial ;  but  at  its  foot  a  slate,  inserted 
into  the  pedestal,  bears  a  long  inscription  in  the  French 
language.  My  attention  was  drawn  to  this  rural  monu- 
ment, which  looked  as  if  it  might  possess  some  inter- 
esting story.     What  the  story  was  it  was  impossible  for 

304 


LK   LUDE 

me  to  say,  so  I  had  recourse  to  the  Comte,  who  never 
failed  in  information. 

"What,"  said  I,  "does  this  cross  mean  at  the  corner 
of  the  field?  It  looks  as  if  it  had  been  forgotten  in  the 
midst  of  the  woods." 

"Why,  that  is  la  Croix  Brf;te, "  replied  the  Comte.  "I 
am  glad  that  you  asked  me,  for  every  one  should  know 
about  it.  It  was  placed  there  in  1370  to  commemorate 
the  famous  battle  of  Pontvallain,  won  by  the  great  du 
Guesclin,  and  in  which  the  English  chief,  Thomas  Gran- 
son,  was  taken  prisoner." 

After  a  last  look  at  the  cross  and  its  pedestal,  we 
started  to  make  our  way  through  the  forest,  while  the 
Comte,  forever  full  of  historical  facts,  and  fond  of  pour- 
ing them  out,  even  to  the  most  obtuse,  returned  to  his 
subject  of  la  Croix  Br^te. 

"Yes,  it  appears  that  after  the  battle  (which  took  place 
in  November  and  which  was  a  very  fierce  one),  the  brave 
du  Guesclin  needed  a  little  rest;  so  he  sat  down  under  an 
old  elm  tree,  and  ordered  a  log  cabin  to  be  built  near  by, 
where  the  wounded  soldiers  could  be  lodged  and  properly 
cared  for.  In  the  meantime,  his  faithful  Bretons 
returned  to  the  battle-field,  still  stained  with  the  blood 
of  their  enemies.  They  brought  back  the  bodies  of 
the  dead,  without  distinction  of  nationality,  and  they 
buried  them  in  one  large  grave  over  which  that  cross  was 
erected.  It  has  stood  there  ever  since,  as  you  see  it 
to-day,  giving  to  the  place  the  name  of  Ormeau  de  la 
Croix  Brfete.  To-day  the  field  belongs  to  a  family  a 
member  of  which  was  one  of  du  Guesclin's  companions. 
Rather  an  interesting  coincidence,  is  it  not?"  concluded 
my  friend,  as  we  emerged  from  the  forest  on  to^^the  sum- 
mit of  a  hill  which  rises  far  above  the  valley  of  the 
Loire. 

The  panorama  spread  before  us  was  certainly  worthy 
of  examination.  At  our  feet  the  road  wound  down 
305 


^a^^^s 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

the  hill  in  many  curves,  now  running  between  two  rustic 
briar  hedges,  now  along  vine-covered  slopes,  and  finally 
hiding  itself  beneath  us  in  an  avenue  of  poplar  trees. 
From  where  we  stood  they  looked  like  dots  of  silvery 
gray  in  the  distant  scene,  so  far  below  us  were  they  and 
so  persistently  did  the  autumn  mist  cling  to  their  dark- 
ened leaves.  Some  distance  from  us,  and  still  in  the 
valley,  the  slate  roofs  and  the  church  spire  of  le  Lude, 
though  scarcely  visible  above  the  green  harmony  of 
trees,  denoted  the  presence  of  that  little  town.  Close  to 
it  and  a  little  to  the  left,  the  heavy  cornices  of  four  round 
towers  gave  evidence  of  the  famous  chateau  toward  which 
we  were  directing  our  steps.  The  trees  of  the  park 
behind  it  sloped  down  to  the  river  Loire;  and  there 
began  a  scale  of  many-colored  greens  which  ends  in  the 
dark,  mysterious  forest  of  the  Chateau  la  Vallifere. 

There  a  noisy  brook  runs  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep 
vale  shrouded  by  smaller  trees.  It  hurries  along, 
as  if  anxious  to  leave  its  sad  surroundings  where  the 
ferns  and  moss  grow  unmindful  of  the  sun.  It  runs 
from  one  stone  to  another,  skipping  over  a  larger 
one,  or  jumping  down  a  tiny  rapid  on  its  busy  way,  talk- 
ing to  itself.  It  tells  of  crumbling  towers  and  of  time- 
eaten  stones,  of  the  old  and  beautiful,  the  ruined  and 
famous  chateau  of  Vaujours.  The  roofs  have  fallen  in 
and  carried  with  them  the  stone  entablatures.  They 
have  dug  large  holes  here  and  there,  and  furrowed  the 
walls  with  crevices.  To-day,  upon  the  shady  ground  about 
it,  briars  and  brambles — those  rural  grave-clothes  to  the 
ruined  castle — have  covered  the  masses  of  fast-decaying 
beams,  of  broken  tiles,  of  stones  and  other  rubbish  with 
a  shroud  whose  folds  of  green  are  filled  in  with  pale 
pink  flowers  or  black  berries.  The  ivy  clings  to  the 
remaining  walls  wherever  it  may  gain  a  foothold,  and 
this  is  often  all  that  holds  the  falling  stones  together. 
Between  its  heavy  foliage  and  the  indistinguishable 
.io6 


LE    LUDE 

(lowers  appear  the  remains  of  an  ornamented  window, 
the  carving  of  a  cornice  or  a  gargoyle,  grinning  at  the 
stranger  from  above.  And  when  night  comes,  the 
death-note  of  an  owl  is  heard,  disputing  with  the  bats 
and  with  the  midnight  wind  over  the  possession  of  that 
which  long  ago  was  graced  by  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Vallii;re.  For  Louis  XIV  had  given  this  chateau  to  his 
first  mistress,  with  the  DuchtC-  de  Vaujours. 

Yes,  the  whole  scene  is  indeed  a  beautiful  one,  with 
its  morning  lights  and  evening  shades,  combined  in  an 
artist  embrace.  The  clouds  are  lighted  by  the  sun, 
which  casts  their  shadows  back  upon  themselves,  and  they 
float  swiftly  through  the  sky,  giving  to  all,  as  they  pass 
in  their  erratic  course  over  the  trees,  the  rivers  and 
the  fields,  a  darker  hue  to  blend  with  the  sur- 
rounding shades.  The  panorama  grows  less  extended, 
but  more  finished,  as  we  descend  the  hill,  to  leave 
behind  us,  one  by  one,  the  windings  of  the  road.  We 
reach  the  foot  at  last,  and  find  a  hidden  avenue  be- 
neath the  lines  of  poplar  trees,  which  now  escort  us  up 
to  the  ver>-  town.  Some  distance  on  this  avenue  dis- 
closes a  scene,  an  unexpected  scene,  making  a  worthy 
climax  to  the  whole.  A  pasture,  so  large  that  it  is 
impossible  to  distinguish  its  exact  proportions,  stretches 
itself  suddenly  at  our  feet.  The  river  and  the  trees 
behind  it  cut  this  enormous  pasture  upon  the  right  and 
allow  it  to  extend  a  mile  or  so  before  us.  The  entire 
surface  is  so  unbroken  that  the  mossy  grass  looks  to  us 
more  than  ever  like  a  velvet  carpet.  At  intervals  a 
clump  of  trees  gracefully  disturbs  the  symmetry,  and  to 
the  left  a  white  wooden  fence  denotes  the  paddock  of  le 
Ludo. 

A  sharp  turn  in  the  road  brings  one  to  an  old  stone 

bridge   whose   central    arch  is    well    supported    by  two 

smaller  ones  upon  the  banks  of  the  picturesque  Loire. 

And    here     again    the    landscape    undergoes   a    sudden 

307 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   IN    TOURAINE 


T ,  i 


T .  T 


T .  Y 


change.  The  river  flows  between  two  desolate  banks 
and  through  a  wide  and  open  valley.  The  hills  upon 
either  side  are  barren,  and  the  sun  pours  down  its 
mid-day  rays,  untempered  even  by  a  tree  or  house,  the 
whole  effect  most  unattractive  and  depressing.  Upon 
the  left,  however,  the  picture  which  presents  itself  to 
view  is  very  different  in  its  effect.  It  looks,  in  fact, 
as  if  the  waters,  passing  beneath  the  bridge,  had  under- 
gone a  metamorphosis  in  which  the  scenery  had  had 
its  share.  The  beauties  of  the  park,  the  high  trees  grow- 
ing to  the  river's  edge,  the  weeping  willows  that  here 
stretch  their  silvery  arms,  as  if  to  catch  a  drop  or  two  of 
running  water,  all  combine  to  make  this  piece  of  scenery 
a  gem  more  beautiful,  if  possible,  by  its  very  contrast. 
For  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  almost  upon  a  level 
with  the  river,  there  are  long  lines  of  flowers  like 
ribands  of  a  thousand  colors.  First,  a  narrow  bed  of 
scarlet  geraniums  dazzles  the  eye  with  its  brightness. 
Then  comes  a  mass  of  purple  ageratums,  grown  so 
thickly  that  they  present  the  appearance  of  one  enor- 
mous flower.  The  wax-like  surface  of  the  red  begonia 
looks  like  a  bed  of  coral  over  the  grass.  And  added  to 
this  there  are  large  stars  of  red  and  white  and  variegated 
flowers,  with  palm  trees  in  the  centre,  enhancing,  if  pos- 
sible, the  beauty  of  this  French  parterre.  A  massive 
wall,  forming  a  terrace,  rises  behind  it  and  creates  an 
almost  ideal  background  to  the  jardin  a  la  franjaise. 
The  soft  gray  of  the  stone  is  relieved  by  Virginia  creep- 
ers, already  purpled  with  the  cool  breath  of  September. 
The  vines  are  clipped  and  trained  into  great  garlands, 
which  drape  the  entire  length  of  the  terrace  wall,  now 
wide,  now  narrow,  falling  here  into  a  point  which  ends 
in  hidden  roots,  and  ending  at  length  in  a  long,  grace- 
ful curve.  As  we  look  at  them  the  garlands,  blown 
hither  and  thither  by  the  wind,  seem  mysteriously  to 
play  with  the  rays  of  the  sun. 
308 

1      /N         />i     > 


T ,  T 


t.i- 


'i .  Y 


LK    LUDK 


We  stood  some  moments  upon  the  bridge,  drinking  in 
the  beauty  of  an  unrivalled  picture.  As  we  leaned  over 
the  railing  green  with  moss,  the  deep  waters  of  the 
river  ran  silently  beneath  us  through  the  long  weeds 
which  bent  in  vain  resistance  to  the  current.  The  trees 
bowed  toward  each  other  from  the  shaded  banks,  and 
upon  the  left  a  tiny  canal  wound  through  the  foliage  to  a 
small  tannery  behind.  The  romance  and  the  niral 
poetry  of  this  scene  were  irresistible.  The  silent  rhap- 
sody was  shortly  broken  by  the  Comte. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  a  French  village  when  they 
have  had  what  is  called  la  procession  de  la  Fete  de  Dieu?" 
he  inquired.  "It  takes  place  at  noon,  on  the  first  Sun- 
day after  Trinity.  Early  on  the  morning  of  that  day 
everj-body  is  up  and  about,  to  be  ready  for  the  'proces- 
sion time,'  as  it  is  called.  Men,  women,  servants,  boys 
and  girls  are  all  hard  at  work.  It  is  then  that  along  the 
principal  street  of  almost  every  village  in  France  a  cord 
is  stretched  against  the  wall  above  the  first  story  of  the 
houses,  underneath  the  roof.  The  mistress  of  each 
house  emerges  from  its  narrow  door^vay,  holding  in  her 
arms  a  pile  of  pure  white  sheets,  used  only  on  that  day. 
She  unfolds  them  carefully,  and  from  their  creases  there 
comes  that  fresh  and  cleanly  perfume  of  lavender  and 
of  old  oak,  given  from  the  perfumed  cupboard  in  which 
they  have  lain  from  year  to  year.  She  stands  on  a  chair 
or  ladder,  holding  one  end  of  the  sheet,  while  her  neigh- 
bor keeps  the  other  from  the  dusty  ground.  At  last  a 
pair  of  wooden  pins  holds  it  firmly  to  the  cord,  so  that  it 
falls  to  the  very  ground  and  covers  the  house  in  a  snow- 
white  drapery.  The  village  street  soon  presents  the 
appearance  of  a  long  avenue  of  white;  and  then  begins 
the  work  for  boys  and  girls.  On  each  sheet  are  fast- 
ened wreaths  of  box,  bouquets  of  roses,  irises,  lilies,  all 
the  flowers  that  are  to  be  found  at  that  time.  Garlands  of 
i\'j'    and   evergreens   stretch   from   house  to  house  and 

309 


i .  T 


T ,  ■( 


f .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

across  the  street  from  ■  one  roof  to  another,  like  a  giant 
spider's  web. 

"The  men,  with  iris  leaves,  water-lilies  and  rose 
leaves  in  their  hands,  make  designs  upon  the  road  over 
which  the  Blessed  Sacrament  is  soon  to  pass.  Well," 
concluded  the  Comte,  "I  have  always  thought  that  the 
wreaths  upon  the  terrace  of  le  Lude  were  exactly  like 
those  decorations  of  a  village  street  on  the  first  Sunday 
after  Trinity." 

"Your  simile  is  a  pretty  one,"  said  I,  when  he  had 
finished  speaking;  "but  as  I  have  never  seen  the  fete, 
I  must  content  myself  with  the  simple  enjoyment  of  the 
present  picture,  which  is,  I  think,  the  most  perfect  ex- 
ample of  the  French  garden  that  I  have  yet  seen." 

The  Comte  continued,  without  waiting  for  me  to  finish: 
"Do  you  see  those  white  marble  statues — that  of 
Hercules  and  Anth6,  and  the  great  vases  crowned  by 
pointed  century  plants?  The  tall  heads  of  while  dahlias, 
and  the  points  of  purple  salvias  arise  likewise  above  the 
balustrade.  They  appear  to  me  like  so  many  people, 
standing  in  a  line  and  looking  down  upon  the  carpet  of 
flowers  beneath  the  terrace.  They  seem  to  be  waiting 
for  the  procession  de  la  Fete  de  Dieu  to  pass. " 

We  cross  the  bridge.  The  parterre  fades  behind  the 
shrubberies,  and  the  chateau,  though  near  at  hand,  is  to 
be  distinguished  only  here  and  there  by  a  pinnacle,  an 
iron  grating,  or  a  pointed  roof.  The  Louis  XVI  fagade, 
whose  rather  hardened  lines  make  of  it  a  grayish  back- 
ground, may  be  seen  between  the  trees,  which  hide  the 
chateau  and  the  moats  around  it.  A  steep  incline  upon 
the  left  brings  one  suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  north 
facade,  divided  from  the  street  by  the  ivy-covered  moat, 
here  so  wide  and  deep  that  it  is  almost  like  a  great 
ravine.  The  two  round  towers  at  each  corner  sink 
deeply  into  the  heart  of  the  moat,  and  their  heavy  foun- 
dations are  lost  in  a  cloak  of  English  ivy,  growing  about 
310 


LE    LUDE 


their  bases  and  giving  to  them  height  and  grace.  The 
tower  on  the  right  is  of  soft  white  stone,  and  was  built 
under  the  Renaissance.  The  carving  about  the  win- 
dows, the  medallions  upon  the  walls  (which  represent 
the  heads  of  several  kings  of  France)  show  the  strong 
link  between  the  present  tower  and  what  it  must  have 
been  some  centuries  ago  before  it  was  restored.  The 
beautiful  chimneys  which  crown  the  roofs  of  Chenonceau 
and  Chambord  with  so  much  grace  are  lacking  here. 
The  sculpturing,  so  delicate  and  so  fine  that  the  finger- 
nail might  almost  injure  it,  the  graceful  combinations 
which  adorn  that  matchless  staircase  of  Blois  and  which 
look  like  magic  flowers,  fruits  and  birds,  have,  it  must  be 
said,  been  more  or  less  reproduced  upon  the  walls  of  this 
tower.  But  they  are  found  here  in  larger  and  much 
coarser  patterns,  losing  by  this  very  fact  much  of  their 
delicacy  and  finish.  They  stand,  in  short,  as  an  imitation 
of  that  inimitable  architecture. 

The  tower  upon  the  left  is  built  of  rough  stones  covered 
with  a  hea\'y  coat  of  mortar,  the  yellow  tinge  of  which 
needs  softening.  This  has  been  lately  repaired,  and 
belongs  to  the  Gothic  period.  Its  walls,  however,  are  too 
bare  and  new.  The  windows  are  too  few,  and  their 
lines  may  well  be  called  a  little  hard.  But  the  porcupine 
of  Louis  XII  in  the  centre  of  the  tower  at  the  second 
story  gives  a  striking  and  unexpected  effect,  while  the 
cordon  of  St.  Francis  of  Assize,  taken  by  Claude  de 
France  as  a  sign  of  mourning  during  her  widowhood, 
encircles  the  porcupine  and  the  tower  itself  effectively. 
As  for  the  window  which  crowns  the  roof  of  this 
tower,  it  is  impossible  to  criticise  the  artistic  taste 
which  has  glided  an  expert  chisel  through  the  delicate 
lacework  of  the  soft  stone.  The  execution  of  the  pinnacles 
which  rise  high  above  the  entablature  is  an  expression — 
and  a  fine  expression — of  that  Gothic  period  which  is  dis- 
tinguished as  the  flamboyant.  The  same  might  be  said 
3n 


^a^^^sK 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

of  other  windows  in  the  roof.  Their  sculpture,  as  well  as 
the  escutcheons  bearing  the  arms  of  bygone  owners  of  le 
Lude,  placed  in  the  centre  of  their  pointed  caps,  are  in 
strong  relief  against  the  high  slate  background,  and  they 
bring  out  plainly  the  inferiority  of  the  windows  beneath 
them.  These  also  are  Gothic,  or  rather,  they  are  meant 
to  be,  for  they  were  repaired,  or  rather  reconstructed, 
some  forty  years  ago,  at  a  period  when  artistic  views  and 
architectural  conceptions  were  both  at  their  lowest  ebb. 
We  mean  the  period  of  the  Second  Empire.  Their  pro- 
portion, far  from  being  that  of  those  around  them,  cries 
out  in  harsh,  discordant  tones  "le  mauvaisgout"  in  which 
le  Lude  was  then  restored. 

But  all  these  faults,  and  their  resulting  criticisms,  fade 
away  beside  the  beauty  of  the  great  moats,  which  play  so 
large  a  part  in  the  efiEect  of  this  chateau.  These  are 
about  fifty  feet  deep,  and  very  nearly  as  broad.  They 
surround  the  castle  upon  three  sides,  and  are  broken, 
here  by  an  arched  bridge  leading  to  the  courtyard,  and 
upon  the  other  side  by  another  bridge  which  joins 
two  separated  terraces.  Deep  below,  a  graveled  walk 
winds  between  the  two  high  walls,  which  are  thickly 
grown  with  ivy,  making  the  whole  seem  more  like  a 
natural  bower  than  a  cultivated  effect.  Bushes  and  ever- 
greens are  interspersed  with  trees,  or  high  clipped  elms. 
The  laurel  and  other  well-known  trees  abound,  and  they 
lend  their  air  of  romance  to  the  whole,  an  air  of  deep, 
impressive  mystery,  unequaled  even  by  the  chateaux  of 
Touraine.  Beneath  the  central  bridge  a  white  stone 
figure,  lying  upon  a  carved  sarcophagus  and  surroimded 
by  an  iron  railing,  stands  out  from  its  shady  and  retired 
spot.  The  figure  is  that  of  a  woman,  and  the  escutcheon 
resting  upon  a  costume  of  the  fifteenth  century  tells  us 
that  she  must  have  been  one  of  the  former  owners  of  le 
Lude.  One  more  object  strikes  the  fancy,  and  adds  its 
beauty  to  these  moats.     Beyond  the  bridge,  and  in  the 


312 


LK    LUDE 

corner,  a  round  tower,  ending  in  a  top  not  unlike  that 
of  an  old  stone  well,  rises  to  the  level  of  the  avenue 
and  encloses  a  winding  staircase  to  the  walks  beneath. 

Another  turn  in  tlie  road  brings  us  to  a  massive  oaken 
door,  framed  in  an  archway  of  gray  stones,  in  front  of 
which  ser\'ants,  footmen  and  stable-boys  discuss  in  high, 
shrill  tones  the  news  of  the  town.  We  ring  the  bell  and 
the  concierge — a  very  fat  and  jovial  concierge,  who  looks 
not  unlike  an  Alsatian  woman — opens  the  door  and  politely 
begs  us  to  come  in.  She  takes  our  cards  to  the  chateau  and 
returns  in  a  few  moments  with  the  news  that  Mme.  la 
Marquise  will  be  pleased  to  have  us  visit  the  chateau  in 
detail. 

We  are  now  standing  in  an  outer  court  formed  by 
avenues  and  shrubs  into  the  shape  of  a  half  moon.  In 
front  of  us  the  moat  lies,  as  we  have  described  it.  Over 
it  the  large  white  marble  bridge,  built  in  a  graceful  arch, 
leads  to  the  most  imposing  portion  of  le  Lude,  the  west- 
em  faqade.  This  is  in  the  shape  of  a  quadrangle,  three 
sides  of  which  are  occupied  by  the  building  itself,  while 
the  fourth  side,  opposite  the  bridge,  is  made  of  three  tall 
arches  surmounted  by  a  carved  stone  balustrade.  The 
interior  courtyard,  which  occupies  an  area  of  about  half 
an  acre,  is  thus  enclosed  in  an  artistic  manner.  The 
general  effect  of  the  three  inner  facades  is  much  im- 
proved by  this  arcade,  which  reaches  to  the  second  story 
and  thus  cuts  the  regularity  of  the  lines.  The  effect  of 
this  facade  of  the  time  of  Fran(,-ois  I  is  softened  and 
improved  by  a  view  in  perspective  through  the  arcade — a 
happy  conception  of  the  architect.  This  mass  of  build- 
ings and  its  details  are  on  the  whole  imposing,  if  studied 
carefully.  We  would  say  that  they  were  strikingly  so, 
especially  to  one  who  has  not  been  spoiled  by  the  stone 
lacework,  the  irreproachable  beauty  and  the  purity  of 
style  to  be  found  in  the  royal  chateaux  of  Touraine. 
Our  carriage  drives  over  the  bridge  and  through  the 

3'i 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


t.t 


Y .  Y 


central  arch,  stopping  before  a  platform  which  is  paved 
with  black  and  white  marbles.  We  are  ushered  by  a  foot- 
man in  green  and  red  livery  into  a  large  vestibule  or  hall, 
in  which  a  staircase  winds  its  way  up  to  the  top  of  the 
tower.  At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  upon  the  railing 
stands  the  striking  statue  of  an  angel,  with  folded  wings, 
holding  in  its  hand  a  cross  like  that  of  St.  John  the 
Baptist.  The  statue  is  entirely  of  bronze,  and  is  one  of 
those  beautiful  creations  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  is 
signed:  Jehan  Barbet.  This  was  indeed  a  happy  idea,  to 
place  it  where  it  stands,  in  relief  against  the  white  rails 
and  snowy  walls  of  the  entrance  of  the  chateau,  like  the 
Guardian  Angel  of  le  Lude.  The  folding  doors  upon  the 
right  open  into  what  is  called  la  salle  des  fetes,  which 
occupies  the  entire  length  of  this  wing.  It  is  ninetj'  feet 
long  and  moderately  high,  with  very  good  proportions. 
The  ceiling  is  vaulted,  and  frescoed  in  rather  question- 
able taste,  and  the  walls  are  panelled  with  light,  modem 
oak,  some  feet  above  the  head.  Above  this  the  panelling 
is  replaced  by  green  leather  which  reaches  to  the 
"chapiteaux"  and  "nervures"  of  the  vaults.  The  iloor  is 
inlaid  with  woods  of  different  kinds,  in  imitation  of 
mosaic,  and  the  furniture  is  rather  shabby,  the  chairs 
being  of  modern  Renaissance  oak  and  green  leather. 
Large  palm  trees  in  huge  oaken  boxes,  flowers  in  every 
corner,  pianos  and  harmoniums,  other  instruments  and 
children's  playthings,  make  this  more  of  a  comfortable 
living  room  than  an  artistic  gallery. 

The  Comte,  who  had  been  looking  about  him  with  the 
air  of  one  who  was  reviewing  a  familiar  sight,  took  my 
arm  and  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  gallery. 

"I  wish  that  you  might  remain  at  le  Lude  for  some 
days,"  said  he,  "as  a  visitor,  and  attend  one  of  the  ban- 
quets which  are  given  in  this  hall.  But  let  me  tell  you 
something  of  these  charming  entertainments.  It  will 
give  you  an  idea  of  the  way  in  which  the  representative 

314 


i .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


LE   LUDK 


persons  of  this  land  entertain  in  their  chateaux.  Once 
or  twice  in  a  year  this  salle  des  fetes  is  entirely  cleared 
of  its  present  furniture,  and  a  large  table  is  laid  the  entire 
length  of  the  apartment,  glittering  with  cut  glass,  with 
silver  and  flowers.  The  chatelains  of  the  neighborhood, 
the  dlite  of  the  society  around,  are  invited  to  dine  at  le 
Lude.  It  is  the  race-day  of  la  Flfeche,  a  pretty  little 
town  not  far  distant.  We  might  even  stop  there,  by  the 
way,  and  visit  the  chapel  in  which  the  heart  of  Henry 
IV  is  religiously  enshrined.  It  is  race-day,  I  said,  and 
the  trains  come  in  filled  with  the  inhabitants  of  the 
neighboring  villages.  Carriages,  carts  and  wagons, 
overcrowded  with  peasants,  follow  each  other  in  a  long 
procession,  over  the  highways  leading  to  the  race-track. 
The  rough  wooden  stands — their  roofs  covered  with 
flags  of  all  colors,  flapping  in  the  wind — are  crowded  with 
the  inhabitants  of  la  Sarthe.  The  ladies,  sitting  upon 
their  wooden  benches,  are  thinking  of  nothing  but  their 
betting,  for  the  time  being.  They  are  busily  engaged  in 
arranging  pools,  the  winner  of  which  may  make  twenty 
francs  at  the  most.  They  are  as  earnest  and  excited  as 
they  would  be  were  their  whole  fortunes  at  stake.  I  can 
see  them  now,"  continued  the  Comte,  shaking  his  hand  in 
the  air  at  the  excitement  of  the  picture  which  he  was  draw- 
ing for  my  benefit.  "I  can  see  them,  shaking  first  their 
heads  and  then  their  handkerchiefs,  to  urge  on  the  horses 
and  the  riders.  Their  light  dresses  and  flower-cov'ered 
hats  dot  the  lawn  of  the  enclosure,  awaiting  with  interest 
the  results  of  each  race.  Others,  who  live  many  miles 
away,  have  made  this  a  rendezvous  for  their  friends,  and 
they  make  up  for  lost  time  by  telling  each  other  all  the 
gossip  of  the  Department.  They  bow  to  the  chatelain 
of  le  Lude,  and  ask  one  another  anxiously  if  they  have 
been  invited  to  dine.  Some  have  been,  while  others  have 
been  disappointed.  The  Marquise  has  not  invited  them! 
It  must  be  a  mistake   or  an  oversight.     They  go  back  to 

3>S 


i .  Y 


T .  V 


r .  i 


'( .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

the  stand  and  hover  about,  trying  to  persuade  her  by 
their  presence  that  they  would  be  a  desirable  addition  to 
the  evening's  entertainment.  But  alas,  they  have  to 
give  up  their  pursuit  without  success,  for  the  selection 
has  been  carefully  made  and  they  have  not  been  included. 
Oh!  Les  pauvres  dames!  Some  of  them  had  even 
brought  a  ball  dress  in  the  carriage,  so  firmly  did  they 
believe  that  they  would  be  asked !  Some  of  them  really 
shed  tears  of  disappointment,  while  their  dearest  friends 
only  embitter  the  wound  the  more  by  saying:  'Oh, 
dear!  how  I  wish  you  were  asked.  I  would  so  gladly 
give  up  my  place  to  you;  but  of  course  I  can't,  you 
know,'  etc.,  etc.  Oh!  my  dear  friend,  Pride  and  Vanity 
are  manifest  enough  even  in  France. 

"Six  o'clock.  .  .  The  last  race  has  been  run.  The 
horse  of  the  Marquis  has  won  it.  There  is  a  great  stir, 
for  all  must  think  of  going  home.  The  carriages  are 
called,  one  by  one,  and  then  follow  the  'au  revoirs.  A 
tout  a  I'heure!  Quel  domage  que  vous  ne  soyez  pas 
invitees.'  The  fortunate  guests  gaily  ascend  the  car- 
riages of  the  chateau  and  off  they  go.  Breaks,  drawn 
by  four  iron-gray  postieres,  victorias,  char-a-bancs  with 
postilions  riding  the  horses  and  cracking  their  whips, — 
all  join  the  brilliant  procession  toward  le  Lude.  Along 
the  poplar-bordered  roads  the  peasants  throw  up  their 
hats,  and  cheer  the  guests  as  they  go  by.  At  last  the 
carriages  pass  under  the  arch ;  they  cross  the  bridge  and 
stop  before  the  marble  platform.  The  guests  are  shown 
to  their  rooms,  and  all  hurry  to  dress  for  dinner,  which 
is  at  eight.  When  the  second  bell  rings  every  one 
assembles  in  the  great  drawing-room,"  and  the  Comte 
pointed  to  the  room  which  occupies,  vnih  two  others,  the 
entire  lower  floor  of  this  Louis  XVI  facade.  "It  opens 
upon  a  terrace  h.  la  fran^-aise,  through  great  glass  doors," 
he  continued.  "The  terrace  is  a  private  one,  and  the 
prettiest  of  all  the  gardens  at  le  Lude,  bordered,  as  it  is, 
316 


LE    LL'Dt 

with  its  jfTcat  oranj;c  trees.  There  is  no  prettier  sight 
than  the  grand  salon,  lighted  by  colossal  chandeliers 
uf  gold  and  crystal.  The  hundreds  of  candles  reflect 
themselves  in  crystal  prisms  hanging  from  golden  arms, 
and  cluster  about  the  centre  like  the  flowers  of  an 
immense  bouquet.  Each  flower  has  its  peculiar  color, 
and  pours  down  its  full  rays  upon  the  beautiful  furniture 
of  the  purest  Louis  XVI.  The  red  brocade,  stamped 
with  graceful  patterns  of  a  milky  white,  adds  to  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  and  when  the  great  curtains  are 
drawn  at  night  they  relieve  the  somewhat  deadened  walls 
of  white  and  gold.  The  whole — as  you  will  soon  see — 
together  with  the  beautiful  mirrors  at  each  comer, 
reminds  one  strongly  of  Louis  XIV's  room  at  Uss^. 
Great  palm  trees  and  smaller  flowers,  screens,  and  tables 
covered  with  family  miniatures  of  the  First  Empire, 
complete  the  furnishings  of  this  truly  beautiful  rorim. 
In  one  of  the  windows  stands  a  small  table,  and  upon  it  is 
the  'collier  du  St.  Esprit,"  which  belonged  to  the  father- 
in-law  of  the  late  Marquis.  The  collier,  which  was  the 
insignia  of  the  highest  order  in  France  under  the  old 
regime,  lies  in  a  green  leather  case,  almost  in  the  shape 
of  a  heart.  The  centre  of  the  case  is  ornamented  by  the 
royal  escutcheon  of  France,  engraved  in  gold.  The 
principal  ornaments  of  the  collar  are  its  golden  fleurs- 
de-lis.  This  famous  heraldic  emblem,  rarely  to  be 
found  in  coats-of-arms,  is  said  to  have  been  brought  from 
the  East  and  used  first  by  the  kings  of  France  during  the 
Crusades.  Here  the  "fleurs-de-lis"  are  linked  together 
by  medallions  of  enamel,  on  which  is  placed  the  royal  H, 
thrice  crowned,  alternating  with  a  helmet,  surmounted 
by  a  white  flag  adorned  with  fleurs-de-lis,  and  surrounded 
by  red  tongues  of  fire.  A  cross,  very  much  like  the 
Maltese  in  design,  hangs  from  the  centre  of  the  collar. 
In  the  centre  of  this  golden  cross  is  a  white  dove,  with  its 
wings  extended,  emblematic  of  the  Holy  Ghost     The 

3>7 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y ,  T 


T .  T 


T.r 


V .  T 


order  was  founded  by  Henry  III  on  the  31st  of  Decem- 
ber, 1598,  and  called  Tordre  du  St.  Esprit,'  on  account 
of  his  having  ascended  the  thrones  of  France  and  of 
Poland  on  the  Day  of  Pentecost.  The  cross  was  usually 
worn,  alone,  at  the  end  of  a  wide,  light-blue  ribbon,  and 
for  this  reason  the  chevaliers  of  the  order  were  called 
'cordon  bleus. '  But  I  digress  so  much  that  I  shall  never 
finish  with  my  story,"  said  the  Comte,  interrupting  him- 
self.    "Where  was  I?     Let  me  see. 

"The  clock  strikes  eight,  and  the  butler  announces, 
'Mme.  la  Marquise  est  servie. '  Then  there  is  a  frou  frou 
of  silks  and  laces,  a  glittering  of  jewels — although  very 
few  are  worn  at  a  dinner  in  the  country — and,  arm  in 
arm,  the  long  procession  of  guests  enters  the  dining  hall. 
Soon  one  hundred  and  twenty  people  are  seated  around 
the  table.  The  dinner  itself  lasts  an  hour  and  a  quarter, 
and  the  ladies  are  left  in  the  salon  while  the  gentlemen 
smoke  in  the  large  librarj'  of  the  western  tower.  The 
dinner  is  followed  by  a  cotillon  in  the  great  gallery. 
Almost  all  the  guests  know  one  another  intimately ;  for 
they  meet  frequently  at  the  neighboring  chateaux,  at  the 
yearly  dinners  given  by  the  chatelaines,  so  that  it  is 
more  like  a  large  family  enjoying  the  dancing  and  the 
favors — of  no  value  but  in  exquisite  taste — which  add 
greatly  to  the  scene.  The  ladies  are  soon  covered  with 
multicolored  ribbons,  some  tied  in  sashes  around  the 
waist,  while  others  are  hung  like  scarfs  from  the  shoul- 
ders. The  red  and  black  evening  coats  of  the  gentlemen 
are  likewise  covered  with  bows  of  ribbons  at  the  ends  of 
which  are  tiny  bells,  giving  a  merry  note  to  the  dance. 
Far  into  the  night  the  revelry  proceeds,  and  it  is  not 
until  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  that  the  carriages  are 
announced.  Some  of  the  guests  return  to  their  castles, 
in  the  adjoining  country,  while  others  mount  the  wind- 
ing staircase,  where  the  angel  is  still  standing— bidding 
them  good  night." 

318 
I 

'1 


i .  i 


i .  i 


r .  I 


i  .  Y 


LE   LUDL 


i  .  i 


"What  a  graphic  picture  yuu  have  painted!"  said  I. 
"This  is  all  delightful." 

"Yes,  ot  course,"  answered  the  Comte;  "especially 
when  the  hostess  of  a  chateau  is  young,  beautiful  and 
attractive,  when  she  knows  how  to  surround  herself  with 
that  brilliancy  which  fascinates  as  long  as  it  lasts.  It  is 
for  this  reason,  I  think,  that  very  few  people  ought  to  be 
asked  to  visit  a  chateau  for  a  long  time.  Once  the  glamour 
worn  out,  the  interest  wears  out  also.  And  how  very  few 
hostesses  know  how  to  sustain  that  interest,  or,  knowing 
how,  take  the  trouble  to  do  so!  Of  course,  it  needs  a 
constant  care  as  well  as  wonderful  tact.  Were  I  not 
afraid  of  being  trivial,  I  should  say  that  this  care  should 
go  even  as  far  as  our  clothes.  You  do  not  know  how 
much  attraction  there  is  to  be  found  in  well  dressed 
women,  in  the  country.  Some  believe  that  because  they 
are  far  from  town  they  should  put  aside  their  elegance. 
Believe  me,  it  never  pays  to  put  aside  one's  elegance. 
People  have  too  little  to  their  credit  to  be  able  to 
afford  to  put  any  of  it  away,  especially  in  the  country. 
Country  elegance,  appropriate,  is  just  as  important,  if  not 
more  so,  than  elegance  in  town.  What  a  mistake  it  is, 
this  getting  out  all  one's  old  clothes  for  the  country ! 
The  success  of  a  house  party  depends  largely  upon  the 
care  which  a  hostess  takes  in  making  it  distingu^e,  in  ask- 
ing the  right  persons  to  meet  one  another,  and  in  amusing 
them,  or  allowing  them  to  amuse  themselves  according 
to  their  different  tastes.  But,  unfortunately,  in  France 
— I  mean  in  almost  all  its  chateaux — what  is  called  a 
'house  party"  is  simply  one  or  two  people  who  bore 
themselves  from  morning  until  night.  I  have  learned 
by  sad  experience  that  chateau  life  is  far  more  attractive 
in  books  than  in  reality.  But  I  have  already  said  too 
much,  I  fear,  for  I  do  not  wish  to  take  from  you  all  the 
charm  which  surrounds  a  French  chateau  in  the  eyes 
of  a  foreigner." 

3«9 


4  .  T 


"i  .  4 


V  .  4 


i .  T 


^^K 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

From  this  salon  in  which  \ve  had  been  standing  during 
the  last  part  of  this  conversation,  we  passed  on  to  a 
boudoir,  which  had  little  that  was  worthy  of  notice  in  it, 
save  for  some  modem  miniatures,  a  great  clock  and  a 
large  bowl.  The  room,  however,  is  a  handsome  one,  and 
opens  into  a  second  librarj-,  which  looks  more  like  a 
morning-room.  Finally,  the  dining-room  is  reached — 
"the  best  for  the  last" — the  gem  of  the  whole  chateau. 
It  occupies  a  large  part  of  the  south  wing,  and  it  is  lighted 
by  four  great  windows,  opening  upon  a  stone  terrace 
which  overlooks  the  moat,  the  parterres,  and  the  park 
beyond.  The  ceiling  is  of  oaken  beams,  elaborately 
painted  in  brown  and  gold.  These  were  foimd,  some 
years  ago,  under  a  modern  ceiling,  in  as  perfect  a  state  of 
restoration  as  when  Francois  I  had  caused  them  to  be  dec- 
orated. They  form  no  small  portion  of  the  character  of 
this  room  to-day.  The  walls  are  hung  with  Flemish  tapes- 
tries framed  in  gilded  oaken  panelling.  At  the  windows 
the  walls  are  over  eight  feet  thick,  and  small  tables  are 
placed  against  these  massive  window-sills,  while  a  large 
oak  table  occupies  the  centre  of  the  room  beneath  a 
Dutch  chandelier.  In  the  corner,  overlooking  the  court, 
another  table  stands,  laden  with  fruits,  with  silver,  and 
with  china  cups  for  five  o'clock  tea.  The  great  chimney 
at  the  further  end  has  been  recently  placed  there,  and  is  a 
direct  copy  of  the  most  beautiful  specimen  at  the  chateau 
of  Blois. 

We  leave  the  dining-room  to  find  ourselves  in  the 
tower  opposite  the  one  by  which  we  entered.  Above,  a 
long  and  rather  narrow  corridor  runs  entirely  around  the 
three  fa9ades  of  the  courtyard,  with  rooms  overlooking 
the  outer  sides  of  the  castle.  The  principal  room  of 
interest  is  that  of  Henry  IV,  which,  like  most  royal 
apartments,  is  considered  the  best  of  the  chateau,  if  not 
in  size  at  least  in  furniture.  The  only  creditable  thing 
here,  however,  is  a  large  four-posted  bed,  heavily  cano- 
320 


LK    lA  DK 

pied  and  curtained,  where  Henry  IV  probably  shut  him- 
self in  and  closed  his  eyes  upon  the  conglomerate  mixture 
of  furniture  about  him,  lacking  even  the  distinction  of 
beinjj  old.  The  chamber  is  panelled  with  wood,  on  which 
are  painted  some  indifferent  pictures  of  flowers.  The 
kinjj  is  said  to  have  slept  here  for  a  night  in  1594,  and 
the  next  day  to  have  followed  the  procession  in  the 
church,  for  the  first  time  since  his  conversion  to  Cathol- 
icism.    Louis  XIII  also  slept  here  in  1619. 

There  is  also  an  Empire  room  in  this  wing,  which  is 
worthy  of  a  visit,  and  which  all  lovers  of  the  Empire 
period  could  but  find  beautiful.  All  is  in  keeping,  the 
bed  in  mahogany  and  brass,  with  its  heavy  canopy  and 
curtains  of  stamped,  mouse-colored  velvet,  the  arm  chairs 
of  the  same,  and  the  tables.  A  single  exception  breaks 
the  symmetry,  a  small  screen,  w'hich  would  have  been 
more  at  ease  in  a  Japanese  tea-house  than  in  an  Empire 
chamber.  A  large  family  picture  of  an  officer  and  his 
wife  in  the  costumes  of  that  period  completes  the  furnish- 
ing of  this  apartment.  With  a  last  look  at  the  interior  of 
le  Lude  we  are  soon  outside  once  more,  wandering  in  the 
paths  of  the  parterres,  and  looking  back  at  the  most 
pleasing  view  of  the  chateau. 

"It  is  really  interesting,"  said  I,  perhaps  in  a  more 
inquiring  than  decided  tone. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  answered  the  Comte.  "It  is  consid- 
ered one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  of  France.  At 
least,  it  is  one  of  those  which  is  most  carefully  taken 
care  of,  and  one  of  the  few  places  whose  owner's  fortune 
is  suflBcient  for  its  size  and  for  the  life  necessary  to  be  led 
in  it." 

"Oh!"  I  replied.  "Though  I  cannot  say  why,  le  Lude 
strikes  me  as  lacking  something.  Is  it  too  bare;  is  it  too 
white;  or  is  it  a  modern  coat  thrown  over  an  ancient 
cuirass?  I  cannot  tell.  But  it  does  not  entirely  satisfy 
me.  The  dining-room,  the  furniture  of  the  salon  and  the 
3^' 


^Sl^SB 


TWO   GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

completeness  of  the  Empire  bedroom,  are  the  only  really 
perfect  bits  which  stand  out  in  my  mind  after  leaving 
it." 

"My  dear  friend,"  returned  the  Comte,  laying  his  hand 
upon  mine,  "my  dear  friend,  when  I  told  you  that  le  Lude 
was  beautiful  I  made  a  mistake.  I  should  have  said  that 
in  course  of  time  it  will  be  beautiful.  And  when  you 
speak  of  the  'only  perfect  bits'  I  can  but  agree  with  j-ou. 
Le  Lude  was  repaired,  as  you  know,  about  forty  years  ago, 
a  most  unfortunate  period  for  such  a  work.  One  sees  this 
at  first  glance,  by  looking  at  the  building  itself,  which 
lacks  unity,  harmony  and  finish.  And  it  has  something 
of  the  cheaper  look  to  be  found  in  almost  every  building 
of  that  period." 

"Where,  do  you  suppose,  is  the  cause  for  this — this— 
what  shall  I  call  it?— this  lack  of  taste?" 

"I  think  we  might  answer,"  my  friend  returned,  "that 
these  results  have  come  as  well  from  past  owners  as  from 
architects.  The  latter  were  not  always  to  blame,  though 
very  often.  At  that  time  inferior  architects  took  the 
lead,  especially  in  the  western  part  of  France,  and  these 
were  largely  responsible  for  the  fad,  the  craze,  which 
inflamed  everybody,  for  Gothic  art  and  architecture, 
appropriated  to  modern  ideas  of  comfort.  This  desire 
became  so  ungovernable,  this  longing  for  Gothic  archi- 
tecture so  insatiable,  that  even  the  smallest  country- 
house,  or  farm,  aspired  to  a  tower,  a  pinnacle,  a  high, 
pointed  roof.  And  you  may  well  imagine  the  distressing 
effect  of  towers  and  spires  on  a  one-storied  house.  The 
artistic  eye  has  been  forced  to  close  itself  for  very  shame 
at  what  it  sees.  One  architect  especially,  named 
Delarue,  prevailed  over  all  the  country,  and  was  the 
father  of  a  style  which  might  be  termed  the  'Delarue 
style.  •  It  was,  in  reality,  nothing  more  than  the  combi- 
nation of  a  good  deal  of  feudal  detail  for  the  least  possible 
money.  All  the  chateaux  which  he  designed  were  upon 
322 


LE    LUDE 

the  same  idea,  a  high  pavilion  in  the  centre,  two  wint,'s 
on  either  side  of  it,  and  a  tower  at  each  end.  The  num- 
ber of  towers  was  usually  in  proportion  to  the  money 
spent  and  the  scale  upon  which  it  was  built.  But  the  jjcn- 
eral  effect  of  the  whole  was  about  the  same,  a  chateau 
the  color  of  gingerbread,  which  looked  more  like  a  cake 
than  a  building. 

"If  you  are  interested  enough  in  the  study  of  this  inferior 
period  I  will  introduce  you  to  one  of  these  creations. 
The  distribution  is  the  same  in  all.  First,  we  shall  come 
to  a  very  dismal  entrance,  a  vestibule,  narrow  and  dark, 
with  a  door  upon  either  side,  leading  to  the  towers  and 
their  steep  winding  staircases.  Open  the  central  door, 
and  you  will  findyouself  in  a  billiard  room  which  occupies 
the  central  pavilion.  If  the  owner  is  well  off,  you  will 
find  leather  upon  the  walls,  and  consider  yourself  to  be 
in  luck  if  you  do — if  not,  it  will  be  a  leather  paper,  or 
paper  simply;  the  effect  is  the  same.  Come  into  the 
salon,  on  the  right.  Very  rich  owners!  White  walls, 
brass  and  crystal  chandelier;  modem  Beauvais,  or  Aubus- 
son  tapestries  representing  usually  the  Fables  of  la  Fon- 
taine on  a  light-green  ground  and  framed  in  white  and 
gold  wood — the  most  expensive  product  of  a  very  stiff 
and  tasteless  style.  If  appropriate  furniture  cannot  be 
provided,  chintz  or  red  velveteen  will  replace  the 
tapestry,  and  a  show)'  paper,  with  fantastic  patterns  on 
it,  will  proudly  proclaim  its  lack  of  taste  upon  the  walls. 
Dinner  is  served.  Let  us  walk  into  the  dining-room.  We 
must  cross  the  billiard-room  to  gain  it,  and  when  there 
we  find  that  it  was  hardly  worth  our  trouble.  Cheap, 
light  oak  panelling,  carved  in  the  most  modern  imitation 
of  the  Renaissance— red  curtains  to  the  windows,  the 
same  as  those  of  the  billiard-room,  so  as  to  be  used 
indifferently.  So  much  for  the  lower  floor  of  a  'chateau 
Delarue. '  As  for  the  rooms  above,  they  are  not  worth 
our  climbing  the  steep  and  tortuous  staircase.     On  an 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


^jT        jT  jes      average  they  are  about  twelve  by  eight  feet,  and  few 
•    *     *    ■•     have   as   much    as  a    dressing-room,    a  very  necessary 
adjunct  to  so  small  a  bedroom.      If  this  is  on  the  upper 
floor  you  may  touch   the  ceiling  with  your  hand,    and 
often  with  your  head,  when  you  do  not  care  to. 

"Let  us  leave  the  chateau,  and  take  a  short  walk — all 
too  long — through  a  park  which  is  in  very  poor  order. 
The  trees  are  neither  well  grown  nor  well  arranged. 
The  avenue?  and  alleys  have  not  much  to  boast  of,  if  they 
have  anything  at  all.  The  paths  are  covered  with  grass 
or  weeds.     There  is  little  to  please  the  eye ;    still  less  to 

»:•       .T,  uj     strike  the   fancy.     And,   indeed,   you  are  glad  to  leave 
^  A     lu     without  delay  this  representative  of  three-quarters  of  the 

present  chateaux  of  France. 

"Le  Lude  was — shall  I  say  restored? — at  all  events, 
repaired  by  Delarue.  Fortunately  for  the  chateau,  the 
walls  were  far  too  thick  to  be  torn  down  and  replaced  by 
gingerbread  creations,  so  that  the  architect  was  forced  to 
modify  his  plans  and  keep  them  to  the  surface  and  the 
interior.  The  stone  walls  nevertheless  received  their 
coating  of  fresh  plaster,  which  carefully  hid  the  lacework 
and  ornaments  of  the  Renaissance.  The  majestic  towers 
were  replaced  by  imitations,  and  the  gray  coating  of  the 
Francjois  I  quadrangle  was  scraped  and  scraped,  thus 
ruining  the  work  of  centuries!  So  seldom  arc  the  soften- 
ing shades  of  Time  thrown  over  the  harsh  coloring  of  the 
French  stone  that  their  existence  should  be  guarded  as  a 
sacred  gift,  and  not  defaced  by  ever-busy  hands.  The 
window-caps  of  the  Gothic  facade  were  but  embellished 
copies  of  the  last  Delarue  chateau,  and  they  look  more 
like  the  wish-bone  of  a  chicken  than  like  architectural 
ornaments." 

I  had  listened  to  this  long  discussion  by  the  Comte  in  a 
quiet  assent  (which  the  sights  of  the  afternoon  had  some- 

«-,        „T,   UJ     what  influenced).     In  the  short  experience  which  I  had 
^  %      f.       had,  this  period  of  architecture  had  already  incurred  my 

i 


*  .  Y 


r .  T 


T ,  i 


'( .  S 


'( .  T 


LK    LUUK 


criticism,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  my  friend  express  him- 
self so  strongly  on  the  subject. 

"There  is  little  good  in  it,"  he  continued.  "Let  us 
pass  over  the  Louis  XVI  fai^ade,  which  has  remained 
unfinished,  probably  unwilling  to  be  massacred  by  a  hand 
which  did  so  much  to  mutilate  the  rest.  As  to  the 
interior,  I  think  that,  apart  from  its  real  beauties,  we 
have  found  in  it  the  whole  procession  of  light  modem 
oak  panellings,  white  stucco  walls,  leather  paper  and 
chairs.  If  you  had  been  there  some  five  j'cars  ago,  you 
would  have  found  also  the  grand  salon  crowded  with  the 
tapestry  of  Beauvais,  La  Fontaine's  Fables,  and  all  the 
rest.  Monsieur  Delarue  is  gone  now,  and  after  him  his 
style  is  fortunately  disappearing.  Money,  during  the 
first  period  of  Delarue's  reign,  was  to  be  found  every- 
where, and  it  was  necessary  to  spend  it,  so  that  many 
bought  castles  and  places.  They  repaired  them,  in 
the  fashion  then  prevailing.  They  knew  not  how  to 
do  better.  Old  tapestries  of  Flandre  and  Gobelin,  old 
furniture  of  the  Louis,  were  mixed  in  with  others,  as 
of  no  value;  or  they  w^ere  sold  for  nothing  and  re- 
placed by  new,  gaudy  creations  which  have  lasted  until 
now. 

"I  do  not  know  a  better  example,"  the  Comte  con- 
cluded, as  we  walked  off  into  the  beautiful  park,  and 
wound  our  way  down  to  the  river  by  a  long  and  shady 
avenue;  "I  do  not  know  a  better  example  than  le  Lude 
— at  least  the  chateau  in  itself,  for  the  park  and  its  sur- 
roundings are  fair)--like — of  the  subject  that  we  have 
been  discussing,  the  subject,  in  fact,  which  it  has  brought 
to  our  minds.  The  evils,  the  bad  taste,  the  ignorance, 
the  vain  attempts  at  originality,  which  were  so  prevalent 
half  a  century  ago,  have  left  an  important  mark  to  stain 
the  architecture  of  to-day.  These  evils  have,  however, 
given  place  to  better  taste  and  to  more  artistic  desires, 
which  show  themselves  already  at  ever)'  turn  in  le  Lude, 


t 


4  .  T 


f . '( 


Y .  V 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

in  every  chateau,  old  or  new,  in  every  building  which 
boasts  refinement  or  education. 

"Let  us  hope  that  this  'Indian  Summer'  to  the  Renais- 
sance, if  I  might  draw  so  strong  a  parallel,  may  continue 
and  produce  a  better  architecture  than  we  have  been 
accustomed  to." 

The  Comte  had  finished  speaking  as  the  great  door  of 
the  entrance  to  the  park  closed  behind  us,  and  le  Lude 
had  come  and  gone. 

One  word  more,  we  are  tempted  to  add,  before  leaving 
the  park.  It  is  an  unquestionable  fact  that  artistic  taste 
in  architecture  has  made  wonderful  progress  during  the 
last  ten  years.  This  comes  doubtless  from  the  more 
careful  study  of  true  art,  which  has  been  gradually 
increasing  since  the  arid  period  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking.  Owners  of  places  in  France  fifty  years  ago 
repaired  their  chateaux  all  at  once,  and  this  may  like- 
wise be  one  cause  for  the  imperfection  of  the  whole.  But 
now,  their  children  have  become  owners  in  their  stead, 
and  while  living  in  these  chateaux  they  have  seen,  little 
by  little,  how  imperfect  they  were,  both  in  style  and  in 
construction.  So  that  to-day,  partly  because  they  could 
afford  it  more  easily,  partly  because  they  thought  it  a 
better  plan,  they  have  been  repairing  them,  bit  by  bit, 
outside  as  well  as  within. 

We  have  seen  the  advantages  of  this  system  of  restora- 
tion in  the  dining-room  and  library  of  le  Lude,  and  we 
are  certain  that  in  some  years  it  will  be  in  keeping  with 
the  original  plans.  Of  course,  it  is  most  difficult,  not  to 
say  impossible,  and  it  is  growing  more  difficult  ever>'  day 
to  refurnish  an  old  castle  with  old  furniture  which  is 
authentic.  Modern  stuffs  and  even  modern  woods  must 
be  used ;  but  we  have  produced  of  late  such  perfect  imi- 
tations of  silks  and  velvets,  of  the  carving  and  coloring  of 
woods,  that  if  all  is  tempered  by  good  taste  the  old  may 
326 


^^Sl^ 


LK    LUDE 


thus  be  repliiced  by  new.  There  is  no  place  where  this  is 
more  fully  understood  than  in  the  newly-repaired  portions 
of  le  Lude,  in  the  architecture  as  well  as  in  the  furnishings. 

But  in  order  to  leave  the  castle  and  all  that  it  calls  to 
mind,  we  must  bejj  the  reader  to  accompany  us  a  little 
further  before  we  part  with  him  for  the  night.  At  all 
events,  we  will  dine  together  at  the  Hotel  du  Boeuf! 
The  dinner  is  a  good  one,  and  the  table  d'hote  gay,  with 
jilenty  of  middle  class  French  people  for  us  to  study 
— to  speak  to  in  very  bad  French  and  to  hide  our  amuse- 
ment at  their  diverting  conversation  in  our  sleeve.  Let 
us  drink  to  le  Lude  and  a  pleasant  day  in  a  bottle  of 
Bordeaux!  The  only  drawback  to  our  dinner  is  an 
"assaisonnemont"  from  the  potage  to  the  caf^,  uncalled 
for,  but,  alas,  too  often  found  in  French  hotels — we  mean 
a  company  of  drummers.  Oh!  If  you  could  but  know 
how  much  it  means  to  a  Frenchman,  a  "commis  voy- 
ageur, "  the  sight  of  one  would  chill  you  to  the  bone!  He 
is  vulgarity  to  his  finger  tips;  the  most  offensive  vulgarity 
in  words  and  actions, — boasting  manners,  kicks  at  the 
table,  eating  with  his  knife,  putting  his  bread  into  his 
wine!  He  has  a  voice  like  a  trumpet,  which  blows  its 
blast  into  your  ears,  into  the  room  and  through  the  whole 
neighborhood.  And  he  discusses  each  course  in  a  man- 
ner that  reminds  us  painfully,  at  least  vividly,  of  Mr.  Jos 
Sedley  and  Vanity  Fair.  He  knows  the  scandal  of  the 
whole  Department,  and  more  too;  he  speaks  intimately 
to  every  one  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact,  and  he 
rejoices  in  being  ever)'body"s  friend.  It  is  needless  to 
say,  with  such  a  power  of  making  friends,  that  he  calls 
the  first  people  of  the  land  by  their  Christian  names. 

The  Comte  shivered  at  the  very  sight  of  four  of  these 
aggressive  creatures.  They  occupied  the  whole  half  of 
the  dining-room,  and  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  spoiled 
by  these  wretched  beings.  But  here  we  will  let  our  cur- 
tain fall,  for  it  has  been  up  too  long  already. 
327 


^a^a 


CHAPTER   XV 


CASTLE-IN-THE-AIR 


We  had  come  to  our  last  journey ;  and  as  we  started 
from  le  Lude,  about  six  in  the  afternoon,  we  felt  that 
the  end  of  our  excursion  was  approaching.  So  long 
had  we  lived  among  these  chateaux  of  history  and  in 
the  life  connected  with  them  that  it  seemed  difficult 
to  believe  the  time  had  come  to  take  up  once  more 
the  life  of  to-day.  The  beauties  and  the  parterres  of  le 
Lude  had  caused  us  to  forget  this  for  a  time ;  but  now  we 
could  not  disguise  from  ourselves  the  regret  that  all  was 
over. 

"However,"  said  I  to  my  companion,  "all  is  not  over 
for  me;  the  little  chateau  of  yours,  to  which  we  are  now 
directing  our  steps,  has  as  much  interest  for  me  as  many 
a  monument  of  greater  importance." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Comte,  "I  suppose  that  I  too  am 
glad  to  see  the  old  place  again.  I  have  not  been  there 
for  a  long  time ;  and  I  am  really  very  fond  of  it.  But  I 
must  warn  you  not  to  expect  a  chateau.  It  is  only  the 
simplest  little  gentilhommi^re,  and  I  have  used  it  for  a 
shooting-box,  in  which  to  pass  a  few  weeks  at  a  time  only, 
when  I  crave  quiet  and  rusticity." 

The  evening  was  a  beautiful  one,  and  before  long  the 
heavens  were  sparkling  with  stars.  The  moon  rose  clear 
and  bright,  and  it  cast  its  silvery  light  over  the  trees  and 
the  road  in  an  almost  ghost-like  manner.  We  followed 
for  a  mile  or  two  the  same  road  which  we  had  taken 
to  come  to  Ic  Lude,  and  we  then  turned  to  the  left, 
plunging  into  a  pine  forest.     A  foot-path  led  through  it, 

3  =  8 


CASTLE-IN-  TME-AIR 

unknown  to  all  save  those  who  were  familiar  with 
this  regfion;  but  the  Comtc  was  one  of  these.  The  little 
lijjht  which  was  reflected  here  through  the  leaves  made 
the  path  more  ghost-like  than  if  it  had  been  dark.  Wc 
walked  along,  almost  holding  our  breath  and  fearing  to 
hear  the  sound  of  something  unknown.  The  cracking  of  a 
dead  branch  beneath  the  foot  made  the  heart  beat  faster. 
The  wings  of  a  startled  bird,  or  a  bat  which  had  been  lost 
among  the  trees,  sounded  strange  and  imnatural  in  our 
ears.  Here  and  there  an  avenue  would  cross  our  path, 
showing  the  white  fences  of  a  private  park.  Further  on 
a  tiny  light,  like  a  golden  spark,  like  a  shining  eye,  told 
of  some  small  farm  where  the  inhabitants  had  not  yet 
retired.  We  passed  near  one,  and  a  dog  broke  out  of  a 
barrel  which  served  him  as  a  kennel,  dragging  his  chain 
over  the  wooden  sides,  and  barking  at  us  until  wc  were 
out  of  sight. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  I  to  the  Comte. 
"You  have  been  silent  for  so  long  that  you  should  have 
something  interesting  to  say." 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  a  strange  dream  which  I  had 
the  other  night.  I  dreamed  that  I  had  been  living  for 
some  time  among  castles-in-the-air.  The  stars  that  we 
see  above  us  between  the  leaves  and  branches  seemed  to 
me  to  grow  larger  and  yet  larger.  They  seemed  to  have 
roofs  and  balconies  and  towers,  and  to  have  assumed 
names  familiar  to  both  of  us.  Do  you  see  the  one  just 
above  our  heads?  That  one  was  Chambord,  and  it  was  the 
largest  of  them  all.  The  one  further  to  the  left  there 
was  Chaumont.  Another,  not  far  off,  was  Chenonceau. 
The  brightest  of  them  all  was  Azay,  while  Blois, 
Valcnqay,  St.  Aignan,  and  others,  clustered  around 
them.  They  appeared  to  be  human  and  to  speak.  One 
by  one  they  came  down  from  the  sky  and  told  their  tales 
and  helped  me  to  build  my  own  castle-in-the-air. 

"  'Oh,  if  you  were  mine,"  said  I  to  Chambord,  'what 

339 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


T .  T 


T .  V 


T .  T 


Y .  T 


would  I  do?  First,  I  would  endeavor  to  become  a  king. 
Then  I  would  bring  my  court  to  fill  your  empty  chambers 
and  to  wander  over  the  avenues  of  your  wonderful  roofs. 
Great  tapestries  would  hang  in  your  halls  below  to  hide 
the  barrenness  of  the  stone,  and  your  beautiful  staircase 
would  stand  in  striking  relief  against  them.  I  would 
destroy  the  unsightly  roofs  upon  the  stables,  and  the 
buildings  about  the  court,  and  I  would  replace  them  by  a 
balustrade  of  carved  stone.  At  your  feet  would  run  the 
river  Cosson,  and  I  would  plant  trees  to  shade  its  sleepy 
waters.  But  make  me  a  king.  For  if  not,  I  do  not  wish 
you.  Return  into  the  firmament,  and  remain  the  silent 
witness  of  bygone  days  that  never  will  return. ' 

"  'And  I,'  said  Blois;  'what  do  you  think  of  me?  Am 
I  not  the  worthy  crown  of  the  Renaissance?  My  walls 
have  stood  against  revolutions,  against  years  of  time  and 
against  the  attacks  of  men.  The  dust  of  centuries  has  given 
to  my  stones  the  softened  hue  necessary  to  perfection.  A 
king,  riding  a  white  steed  with  golden  trappings,  mounts 
guard  above  the  archway  leading  to  the  court  of  honor. 
Enter  and  judge  for  yourself  if  there  be  not  a  worthy  dis- 
play within.  Behold  this  wing  of  Louis  XIL  Does  not 
the  brick  blend  with  the  delicate  carvings  of  the 
stone?  Are  not  the  long  gargoyles  hanging  from  the 
towers  in  perfect  keeping  with  it  all?  Is  not  the  pearl- 
tinted  stone  of  Francois  I  enhanced  by  the  lacework  of  its 
windows?  And  where  will  you  find  another  staircase 
such  as  mine?  Each  pilaster,  each  stone,  has  its  history 
or  its  legend.  For  the  artist's  chisel  has  furrowed  its 
own  story  into  the  walls.  A  moment  longer;  come  out 
upon  the  terrace,  near  the  chapel.  See  what  a  panorama 
stretches  before  the  eyes.  There  is  the  Loire,  winding 
its  way  through  the  "garden  of  France."  Look  upon 
these  things,  and  tell  me  if  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  called  a 
castle-in-the-air. ' 

"And    I   answered:    'Yes,   you   are   indeed   beautiful, 

330 

i 


i .  T 


T .  i 


f .  i 


Y .  V 


r .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


Y .  Y 


CAS  ri,t;-lN-  IHK-AIR 

standing  upon  tlie  crest  of  a  rock,  the  high  walls  cut  by 
loggias  and  relieved  with  carvings.  You  rise  from  among 
the  roofs  of  a  town,  slumbering  at  your  feet,  proud  and 
yet  fascinating.  The  spire  of  a  church  seeks  in  vain  to 
rise  above  the  terrace  and  to  peep  within  the  walls  of  the 
court  Yet  something  is  lacking.  Perhaps  if  Gaston 
d'Orleans  had  not  torn  down  your  remaining  side  to 
replace  it  by  one  so  far  beneath  it  in  beauty,  perhaps  then 
you  would  have  been  the  perfect  chateau.  But  if  I  enter 
the  rooms,  they  are  dark  and  cold.  The  morning  sun  has 
but  scarcely  warmed  them  when  it  departs  and  leaves 
them  to  mourn  for  the  remaining  hours  of  the  day.  No, 
you  are  not  for  me.  Return  once  more  into  the  heavens, 
and  there  remain,  the  bright  star  that  you  have  been. 
For  you  are  not  yet  a  castle-in-the-air.' 

"Another  star  grew  brighter,  larger;  at  last  it  became 
another  chateau,  with  a  human  voice  that  spoke  to  me. 

"  'I  must  surely  find  favor  in  your  eyes,"  it  said,  'for  I 
stand  smiling  in  the  morning  light.  I  too  stand  high 
above  the  world.  I  look  down  upon  this  beautiful 
valley  which  all  have  loved  so  well.  My  four  towers 
burst  out,  like  giant  flowers,  from  their  bed  of  green 
trees.  My  avenues  are  swept  by  countless  gardens  and 
my  park  spreads  itself  out  for  miles.  Hold;  for  the 
drawbridge  is  already  lowered  for  you  to  enter,  and 
within  you  surely  may  be  pleased. ' 

"And  I  answered  to  the  star:  'Your  name  is  Chaumont, 
is  it  not?  I  am  not  mistaken,  for  it  is  engraved  upon  my 
mind  in  silver  letters.  I  will  not  enter;  but  I  shall 
remember  you  if  I  should  fail  to  find  my  castle-in-the-air. ' 

"And  another  came  out  of  the  heavens  and  begged  me 
to  come  in ;  but  I  refused,  although  this,  too,  hung  above 
the  river  and  the  valley,  although  this,  also,  was  built 
upon  a  high  rock.  But  further  on  another  spoke  to  me, 
and  I  was  forced  to  listen  to  it  in  spite  of  myself,  for  it 
was  Chcnonceau. 


33 « 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


l.t 


Y .  Y 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 

"  'I  am  cold,'  it  said,  'perhaps  I  am  even  harsh  to 
some;  and  my  galleries  are  bare.  But  the  beauti- 
ful position  which  I  hold  over  the  river  atones  for  many 
faults.  I  have  gardens  that  are  worthy  of  a  queen.  I 
have  a  parterre  where  many  queens  have  spent  happy 
hours.  I  have  a  park,  small  but  unique  in  its  design. 
All  that  I  now  need  is  life.  Give  to  me  once  again  the 
breath  of  Royalty  within  my  walls,  and  I  would  be  your 
castle-in-the-air.  Let  horses  that  draw  a  coach  of  gold 
and  blue  be  seen  once  more  upon  my  avenue.  Let  the 
trees  above  but  echo  the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the  stones. 
Let  the  lives  and  the  fetes  of  Diane  de  Poitiers  and  of 
Catherine  de  Medici  but  return  to  me,  and  I  would  stand 
the  queen  of  all  three  castles-in-the-air. ' 

"But  the  voice  of  Chenonceau  was  drowned  by  the 
deep  notes  of  Valengay,  pressing  forward  to  be  heard. 
And  it  sank  back  again,  only  to  give  place  to  a  great 
star,  whose  rays  were  more  powerful  than  those  of 
Chenonceau.  The  voice  of  Valengay  was  like  the 
thunder  of  Jupiter,  softened  by  the  delicacy  of  Apollo, 
as  it  addressed  me. 

"  'I  am  worthy  to  be  recognized,'  it  began.  'An 
emperor  found  me  a  fitting  gift  to  make  to  a  famous 
prince.  I  am  royal  in  everything,  royal  in  my  forest, 
royal  in  my  buildings,  royal  in  my  surroundings. ' 

"  'You  are  great  as  well  as  beautiful,'  I  returned. 
'Your  park  must  have  been  designed  by  some  fairj^'s 
hand.  No  other  could  have  made  it  what  it  is.  The  elm 
trees  meet  above  the  head,  as  we  walk  through  some 
shady  path.  The  ivy  upon  the  ground  is  sparkling  with 
diamond  drops.  The  gentle  stream  is  almost  over- 
whelmed by  flowers  upon  its  bank.  Birds  sing,  and 
nature  speaks.  The  higher  Being  in  our  hearts  is  awak- 
ened and  is  in  touch  with  everything.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  all,  oh,  castle  of  stone,  rising  upon  the  brow  of 
yonder  hill,    there   is  lacking   in   your   walls   the   spirit 

332 


CAS  ILK-IN-THK-AIR 

of  my  castle-inthe-air.  Why,  indeed,  is  it  that  what 
we  have  is  always  so  far  from  our  desires,  and  that 
what  we  desire  is  so  far  removed  from  what  we 
have?  Let  me  not  ask  myself  wherein  you  may  fall 
short  of  my  ideal,  lest  I  lose  power  to  appreciate  the 
beauty  of  much  that  I  have  seen." 

"And  I  dreamed  that  many  others  came  and  spoke  to 
me,  out  of  the  starry  sky.  Some  of  them  I  knew,  and 
some  I  knew  not.  But  they  all  lacked  something  which 
kept  me  from  finding  in  them  what  I  sought.  At  last 
there  came  the  brightest  of  all  the  stars.  It  was  not 
large.  Nay,  it  seemed  one  of  the  smallest  of  them.  But 
its  rays  were  like  a  thousand  tiny  diamonds,  shooting  out 
in  all  directions  into  the  night.  There  was  no  such  star 
about  it.  Xo  one  could  resist  it.  And  as  it  came  out 
more  distinctly,  I  saw  that  its  name  was  Azay-le-Rideau. 
There  was  the  jasmine,  spreading  its  golden  wreaths 
over  the  stone  pavilions.  Flowers  grew  about  them,  and 
all  was  as  I  had  seen  it,  a  setting  worthy  of  a  crown. 
Ever}'  detail  of  it  bore  enchantment  in  its  lines;  every 
shadow  had  its  magic  touch.  And  as  I  looked  at  it  all,  I 
thought:  'Ah I  what  life  might  be  within  its  walls! 
What  it  would  be,  even  to  live  near  one  of  these  gems  of 
the  French  Renaissance!  This  one  may  be  a  little  small, 
a  little  flat.  Some  other  details  may  be  not  all  that  one 
would  have;  but  this  last  star,  this  last  castle,  comes 
nearest  to  my  ideal.' 

"It  was  a  pretty  dream;  was  it  not?"  said  the  Comte, 
as  he  concluded.  "I  have  been  thinking  of  it  ever 
since." 

"Ah,  my  dear  friend,"  I  returned,  "if  I  could  but 
build  upon  solid  ground  my  ideal,  my  castle-in-the-air, 
my  'chateau  en  Espagne,"  as  your  countrymen  poetically 
call  it,  if  by  taking  a  bit  from  each  one  of  these  chateaux, 
a  ray  from  each  of  these  stars  that  shine  in  so  many 
different  ways;  oh,  if  I  could  but  do  this,  what  a  castle 


333 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 


Y .  T 


r .  T 


V .  T 


would  I  build !     I  would  choose  the  chateau  of  Azay,  for 

the  central  figure,  with  the  situation  of  Chaumont,  and  in 

the  park  of  Valengay.     The  river  Loire,  with  its  blue 

waters,  its  yellow  shafts  of  sand  and  its  banks  of  poplar 

trees,  should  flow  a  hundred  feet  below.     The  chapel  of 

Amboise  should  be  transported  there  and  hidden  amid  a 

bower  of  trees,  showing  only  through  a  vista  of  the  park. 

But  the  moment  that  we  opened  the  deeply-carved  door, 

the  bare  stones  would  be  replaced  by  the  soft  lights  and 

the  beautiful   interior  of  the   chapel  at  Chaumont.     The 

great  staircase  of  Blois  would  rise  out  of  the  water  upon 

the  southern  fagade  of  this 'chateau  en  Espagne,'  so  that  a  ^.__ 

boat,  a  gondola,  could  draw  up  beside  its  steps,  and  the   H      4  A 

whole   picture  would  be  reflected    in  the   water.      The  * 

parterre  de  Diane,  brought  from  Chenonceau,  would  be 

cut  in  twain  and  spread  upon  either  side  of  the  chateau. 

And  we  should  approach  it  from  a  long,  straight  avenue. 

At  its  opening  would  be    a  massive  gate  of  beautifully 

wrought   iron,    with  two   stone   pillars    surmounted   by 

coats-of-arms.      Beyond  would  be  a  forest  like  that  of 

Chambord  or  Valengay.     Behind  the  chateau  the  broad 

flight  of   steps   at  St.   Aignan  would  lead  to  the  river 

below,  and  to  the  terrace  of  le  Lude,  upon  a  tiny  tributary 

of  the  greater  river. 

"The  great  gates  of  the  castle  are  opened.  Coaches, 
drawn  by  percheron  postiers  and  ridden  by  postilions, 
are  driving  up  the  avenue  and  leaving  their  masters  at 
the  doors  of  the  inner  court.  Footmen  in  noble  liveries 
usher  the  guests  up  the  great  staircase  to  the  salon,  where 
a  brilliant  company  of  people  is  assembled.  It  is  the 
hour  for  tea.  Some  are  seated  at  a  table  where  two 
ladies  of  the  chateau  assist  in  pouring  it  into  cups,  which  the 
footmen  pass  upon  massive  silver  trays.  A  great  artist, 
who  is  staying  in  the  chateau,  is  singing,  accompanied  by 
a  harp.  Beyond,  upon  the  terrace,  young  people  in  the  ^  ^.^ 
first  blush  of  youth  are  playing  tennis.  Life  is  before  ffl  A  ^ 
334 

i 


r .  "i 


C  A  S  r  L  E  - 1  N  -  T  H  K  -  A  1  R 


them,  in  all  its  sweetness.  They  know  not  of  woes  nor 
cares.  None  but  people  who  are  great  in  some  way  are 
admitted  to  this  salon.  They  must  be  great  by  birth, 
by  character,  or  by  some  other  ciuality  that  makes  them 
worthy  of  it.  Yonder,  beneath  the  Titian  picture, 
sits  a  statesman,  speaking  with  a  beautiful  woman. 
Further  on  there  is  a  famous  artist  of  to-day.  See  how 
he  scans  the  pictures  upon  the  walls,  as  if  to  add  the 
genius  of  centuries  ago  to  that  for  which  the  world 
already  honors  him.  Further  still,  in  the  great  salon 
reflected  in  the  Louis  XVI  mirrors,  or  sitting  upon  the 
chairs  of  gold  and  rose  brocade,  are  wits  and  beaux,  men 
and  women  of  mind  and  cultivation.  They  are  all  adding 
their  charms  to  the  scene,  and  they  aid  in  making  the 
salon  what  it  is.  Truly,  this  is  the  castle-in-the-air  so 
many  seek  in  vain,  for  happiness  and  love  reign  over  all. 
A  day,  a  week,  spent  there  is  remembered  for  a  lifetime." 

Our  conversation  had  brought  us  toward  the  end  of  our 
walk.  As  far  as  I  could  distinguish  in  the  uncertain 
moonlight,  we  were  upon  the  top  of  a  hill.  In  front  of 
us  the  pines  seemed  to  become  less  thick,  less  dense,  and 
we  could  see  for  some  distance  ahead  of  us. 

"We  arc  almost  there  now,"  said  the  Comte.  "Just 
below  us,  about  a  hundred  feet  away,  there  is  a  lake 
of  some  size." 

I  looked  in  the  direction  which  he  indicated,  and  saw  the 
still  waters  of  the  lake,  like  a  large  mirror,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  Cold,  silvery  and  metallic  in  its  aspect,  it 
seemed  to  reflect  in  stern,  unfaltering  truth,  the  very 
soul  of  the  surrounding  countrj'. 

The  Comte  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm  and  said:  "Do 
vou  see,  away  yonder  on  the  opposite  shore,  a  little  light? 
It  might  almost  be  that  of  a  ver-luisant,  it  is  so  small." 

"It  looks  as  if  it  were  suspended  from  the  top  of  a  tree, 
to  light  the  woodcutter  in  a  nighfs  work,"  said  I,  as  my 
eye  fell  upon  it. 


i .  Y 


T ,  I 


y .  V 


T .  T 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


"No,  it  is  not  that,"  my  friend  replied.  "If  you  look 
more  carefully,  you  will  see  that  it  comes  from  a  win- 
dow, from  the  window  of  a  round  tower  which  looks  as 
if  it  might  rise  from  the  water  below." 

"So  it  does,"  said  I.  "I  can  see  the  walls  now,  with 
darker  patches  upon  them,  looking  like  other  windows, 
or  like  clumps  of  ivy.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  which  in 
the  darkness.  There  I  can  see  the  pointed  cone  of  the 
tower  and  a  comer  of  the  roof." 

The  Comte  drew  nearer  to  me.  He  seemed  almost  to 
whisper  in  my  ear  as  he  said:  "You  are  looking  at  the 
end  of  our  walk,  at  the  end  of  all  our  walks.  The  light 
and  the  gentilhommiere,  with  its  tower  and  the  ivy,  is 
my  little  place.  It  is  'le  Pl^ssis.'  I  feel  sadder  than 
ever  as  I  think  of  the  days  which  we  have  spent  so 
happily  in  Touraine  and  which  have  joined  the  past, 
never  to  come  back  again.  Perhaps  in  after  years  we 
shall  visit  Chambord  and  Chenonceau  and  Blois  once 
more.  But  they  will  never  be  the  same  as  in  this  first 
visit  which  we  have  made  to  them  together.  Will  they?" 
"No,"  I  answered,  sadly;  "the  charm  of  rustic  sim- 
plicity, the  peaceful  country  life,  half  buried  in  history 
and  in  antiquity,  the  atmosphere  of  old  Touraine  could 
never  produce  the  same  influences  upon  us  another  time. 
The  poetry  would  be  lacking.  The  imagination  and  the 
idealism  would  be  replaced  by  the  practical  and  the  com- 
monplace. I  seem  to  shrink,  almost,  from  going  on; 
each  step  now  cuts  us  further  from  the  past.  I  feel  as  if 
we  had  been  living  in  a  long  dream  for  the  past  weeks, 
and  that  the  moment  we  arrive  at  le  P16ssis  we  must 
wake  up  once  more  to  work  and  to  reality."  But  we 
were  obliged  to  push  forward,  for  it  was  already  late. 

We  hastened  down  the  hill,  feeling  our  way  at  every 

step,  and  at  last  the  sandy  avenue  appeared  before  us, 

and  before  we  knew  it   we  were  standing  in  a  square 

courtyard  that  reached  to  the  very  edge  of  the  lake.     We 

336 


CASTLK-IN-  TH  K-AIR 

could  just  distinguish  a  garden  to  the  right,  whik-  the 
pointed  roofs  and  tower  rose  before  us.  What  tranciuillity 
there  was  in  the  sheltering  wall,  in  the  soft  ripple  of  the 
water  against  the  terrace  1  What  a  feeling  of  rest  and 
home  in  the  harmonious  and  gentle  surroundings! 

The  light  which  we  had  seen  was  still  shining  from  the 
upper  window,  which  we  now  discovered  to  be  made  of 
stained  glass.  The  design,  the  fantastic  figure  of  a  knight 
in  full  armor,  showed  clearly  from  without.  Beneath  the 
window  was  a  door — a  narrow  doorway,  surmounted  by  a 
carving  of  the  family  arms.  A  faint  light  was  reflected 
upon  it  by  the  moon;  but  the  rest  of  the  building  was 
lost  in  shade.  I  had  little  time  to  look  about  me  or  to 
take  in  the  whole  scene,  for  immediately  my  companion 
touched  the  great  bell  hanging  from  above,  the  light 
from  the  window  disappeared,  and  steps  were  heard 
approaching.  A  key  turned  and  the  door  opened.  An 
old  woman's  form  appeared  in  the  flood  of  light  which 
nearly  blinded  us,  and  a  kindly  voice  broke  through  the 
silence. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  le  Comte!"  exclaimed  the  old  servant. 
"It  was  so  late,  Joseph  and  I  thought  something  must 
have  happened.  We  were  getting  very  anxious  about 
you  and  monsieur,  your  friend.  Dear  me  I  What  would 
Madame  la  Comtesse  say  if  she  knew  you  were  out  with- 
out coats  this  damp  September  evening?" 

"We  are  very  well,  Marie.  Do  not  worry,"  replied  the 
Comte,  showing  me  the  way  through  the  vestibule.  An 
old  man  came  hastening  down  the  corridor  to  meet  us, 
and  my  friend  added:  "This  is  Joseph,  an  old  ser\'ant 
who  has  been  in  our  family  for  over  fifty  years." 

"Oui,  monsieur,"  said  Joseph.  "I  can  remember  well 
when  Monsieur  le  Comte  was  born,  and  what  rejoicing 
there  was  at  the  chateau  in  Sologne  over  the  arrival  of  a 
son  and  heir.  And  I  can  remember,  too,  Monsieur  le 
Comte  who  is   dead  now,  and  what  a  good  master  he 

337 


^^a^a^^^S 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN   TOURAINE 

was."  The  faithful  old  servant's  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears  as  he  recalled  his  former  friend  and  master. 
"C'est  que  Monsieur  le  Comte  is  a  worthy  successor  to 
his  noble  father,  though,"  he  added  hastily,  his  face 
brightening  as  he  spoke.  "Marie  and  I  are  very  proud 
of  him;  are  we  not,  Marie?"  And  Marie  dropped  a  very 
low  curtsey,  and  wiped  away  a  tear  with  the  edge  of  her 
apron  in  memory  of  her  dead  chatelain.  The  old 
couple  must  surely  have  been  seventj',  and  no  one  could 
see  them  without  feeling  the  charm  of  their  faithful  re- 
spect. Marie  had  been  the  Comte's  nurse,  and  doubt- 
less she  regarded  him  as  if  he  were  her  own  child. 

"But  ces  messieurs  must  be  hungry  after  their  long 
walk, '  ■  exclaimed  the  two  old  guardians  of  the  place  in 
one  breath.  And  Joseph  ushered  us  into  the  dining- 
room,  while  Marie  trotted  away  to  the  mysteries  of  the 
kitchen. 

The  room  which  we  now  entered  was  in  reality  a 
large  hall,  nearly  twelve  metres  long.  The  greater  part 
of  it  was  panelled  in  carved  oak,  and  some  old  tapestries 
hung  at  either  end.  The  decorated  beams  of  the  ceiling 
were  lost  in  the  half  obscurity  of  a  small  silver  lamp 
shaded  with  dark  rose-colored  silk.  It  stood  upon  a  small 
table,  set  in  the  front  of  a  great  stone  chimney-piece,  at 
the  further  end  of  the  room.  Another  great  carving  of 
the  family  coat-of-arms  hung  above  the  head,  and  a  log 
of  wood — so  large  that  it  looked  like  the  whole  trunk  of 
a  tree — blazed  upon  the  two  tall  andirons  beneath. 

"We  were  afraid  that  Monsieur  le  Comte  and  his  friend 
might  be  cold  after  their  damp  walk,"  explained  Joseph, 
as  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  table  near  the  cheerful 
blaze. 

How  welcome  it  looked!  The  snow-white  cloth  was 
made  to  look  still  whiter  by  the  red  coronets,  embroid- 
ered at  the  comers.  A  large  bunch  of  hollyhocks,  per- 
haps the  last  of  the  season,  although  their  colors  were  as 
3.3S 


-^:^aX?^^S)  child.     T 


CAS  rLK-KN-THE-AIR 

pink  as  if  it  had  been  July,  graced  the  silver  bowl  in  tlic 
centre  of  the  table.  Four  cut-glass  decanters,  whose 
quaint  patterns  belonged  ty  the  last  century,  stood  at  the 
corners  also.  And  the  vin  rouge  seemed  to  be  challeng- 
ing the  vin  blanc  for  the  best  position  upon  the  hospitable 
board.  I  was  amusing  myself  in  playing  with  one  of  the 
Louis  XVI  salt  cellars,  when  Joseph  brought  in  the  soup 
in  a  silver  tureen  which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been 
an  elder  brother  to  them, 

"This  is  made  from  the  vegetables  of  the  garden," 
said  he,  as  he  served  it.  "Monsieur  must  surely  take 
some." 

"And  monsieur  votre  ami  too,"  cried  Marie  from  the 
kitchen.  "Oh!  Madame  la  Comtesse  would  be  very 
angry  if  she  thought  that  visitors  to  le  Pldssis  did  not 
taste  everything  good  here." 

"And  how  is  every  one  since  I  have  been  away?" 
inquired  the  Comte. 

"Oh,  ever)'  one  is  very  well,  thank  you.  Monsieur  le 
Comte,"  answered  Joseph,  delighted  to  tell  the  gossip  of 
the  village  before  any  one  else  should  have  the  chance, 
the  wife  of  piire  le  Roux,  has  just  lost  her  last 
That  makes  four  of  them  that  have  gone  in  two 
years.  Monsieur  le  Comte.  Perhaps  it's  just  as  well, 
though,  just  as  well,"  he  added,  philosophically.  "For, 
you  know,  there  wasn't  much  to  live  upon,  and  they 
were  never  very  thrifty.  Poor  Maitre  Briand  is  to  be 
buried  to-morrow.  They  waited  a  day  for  the  funeral, 
so  that  Monsieur  le  Comte  should  be  there.  Maupetit  is 
almost  ill  because  his  pigs  do  not  sell  well  this  year. 
Two  of  them  were  stolen  the  other  night,  and  the  whole 
village  has  been  upset  in  consequence.  .  .  .  Monsieur  le 
Comte  would  do  well,  before  leaving,  to  speak  to  Jules 
He  has  been  tipsy  twice  of  late,  in  spite  of  all  his  prom- 
ises. And  the  nose  of  Eugene,  the  butcher,  is  redder  than 
ever.  Ah,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  there  is  no  curing  //////,  I 
339 


TWO    GENTLEMEN    IN    TOURAINE 


Y .  Y 


Y .  Y 


y.Y 


Y .  Y 


fear.  His  poor  wife  has  to  cut  the  meat  for  him,  half 
the  time.  .  .  .  Maitre  Poussin,  the  farmer  of  les 
Brandiferes,  has  just  sent  in  this  chicken,  as  a  present  of 
welcome,  and  he  hopes  that  Monsieur  le  Comte  and 
Madame  la  Comtesse,  and  all  at  the  chateau  de  Persigny, 
are  very  well.  The  Bon  Dieu  has  given  him  a  son  and  a 
daughter  within  eighteen  months,  and  he  named  the  son 
for  Monsieur  le  Comte  and  hopes  you  will  let  him  bring 
it  up  for  you  to  see  before  going. ' ' 

Joseph's  news  was  cut  short  at  this  point  by  the  salad, 
which  required  no  little  attention,  as  it  had  been  sent  by 
Victore,  the  overseer,  and  was  one  of  his  famous  salads 
that  were  only  sent  to  the  villagers  as  wedding  presents, 
and  to  the  chateau  on  grand  occasions.  And  so  the 
dinner  proceeded.  Every  dish  had  its  own  association 
and  its  history.  Every  mouthful  was  watched  over  by 
Joseph  with  a  loving  interest  such  as  one  finds  only  in 
France.  At  last  the  grapes  and  peaches  were  left  upon 
the  table,  and  Marie  came  in — just  to  tell  us  not  to  sit  up 
too  late,  and  we  were  alone  once  more,  alone  before  the 
crackling  blaze. 

"Well,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  ver>'  far,  I  fear,  from  our 
castle-in-the-air, "  said  the  Comte,  at  length.  "I  fail  to 
see  the  many  famous  guests,  and  the  salon  which  you 
pictured  an  hour  past.  Instead  of  footmen  in  state 
livery,  and  carriages  and  coaches  and  horses  without 
number,  we  have  only  our  faithful  Joseph  and  an  old 
horse  in  the  stable.  I  have  not  seen  it  for  some  time ; 
but  I  fancy  it  would  make  a  very  good  companion  to 
Mdlle.  Bichette,  with  whom  we  started  our  travels.  No. 
Poor  little  Pldssis  cannot  be  called  a  castle-in-the-air. 
But,  do  you  know,  these  old  walls  have  their  own  share 
of  history  lurking  about.  Not  a  few  ancestors  of  mine 
have  lived  and  died  here.  In  fact,  the  ghost  of  one  of 
them  is  even  supposed  to  haunt  my  present  bed-chamber. 
An  imaginative  lady  once  passed  a  night  there,  and  we  had 
340 

i 


Y .  Y 


Y ,  Y 


r.t 


Y ,  Y 


CASTLE-IN-THE-AIR 


a.  lively  time  of  it,  I  can  assure  you.  For  about  two  or 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  ghost  took  it  into  his 
head — or  at  least  she  took  it  into  her  own  head  to  think 
he  did — to  pay  her  a  visit.  We  have  tried  in  vain  to 
induce  the  dear  old  lady  to  come  within  ten  leagues  of  le 
Pl«5ssis  ever  since.  I  fear,  though,  it  is  more  because  she 
unwarily  ran  out  into  the  upper  hall  and  showed  herself 
without  her  wig  than  because  of  my  great-grandfather's 
ghost. 

"One  of  my  ancestors  was  taken  from  this  very  room 
to  be  shot,  during  the  First  Revolution.  My  mother  has 
spent  the  happiest  days  of  her  life  here,  and  all  our  ten- 
ants have  been  with  us  for  generations  and  are  devoted 
to  the  family.  Castles-inthe  air  are  very  well  to  build 
in  the  air;  but  if  some  day  they  happen  to  become 
realities  upon  this  earth  they  do  not  always  bring  with 
them  happiness  or  joy." 

The  Comte  looked  so  wise  in  his  own  belief  that  I 
could  not  help  tempting  him  with  a  question. 

"Are  you  verj*  sure  that  you  would  change  le  Pl^ssis 
for  any  castle-in-the-air,  even  if  it  were  your  ideal,  your 
longed-for  ideal?"  I  asked. 

But  my  old  friend  was  not  to  be  caught  in  any  such  trap. 

"No,"  he  answered,  promptly.  "I  am  a  Conservative, 
you  see,  and  the  crumbling  towers  of  an  old  gentilhom- 
miere  are  more  in  keeping  with  me  than  the  gilded 
spires  and  the  white  stones  of  these  great  chateaux,  where 
the  blue-blood  of  France  has  had  to  mix  with  the  new  to 
gild  the  spires  and  to  whiten  the  stones." 

"Come,  my  children,  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed,"  broke  in 
Marie,  as  she  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  two  silver 
candlesticks.  "It  is  very  late,  and  you.  Monsieur  le 
Comte,  do  not  forget  to  say  your  prayers,  just  as  you 
used  to  do  to  me,  I  don't  know  how  many  years  ago. 
Madame  la  Comtesse  would  be  very  sorry  if  you  forgot 
them,  after  all  our  pains." 

341 


i .  T 


T ,  V 


■         1 


'( ,  T 


^a^a^^^a 


UNIVERSITV  OF  CALIFORNIA 


BERKELEY 


LIBRARY 


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